


Vessel

by bananabog



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Betrayal, Body Horror, Crack, Demonic Possession, Depression, Drama, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Masturbation, Mindfuck, Mpreg, Stillbirth, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Intervention, Timeskip, Trauma, a lot of fucking drama, asexual!bill, basically my excuse to write the most disturbing billford that i can, not a happy fic, so much betrayal, this thing has mood swings of its own, triangle!Bill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-05-08 11:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 42,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5495309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananabog/pseuds/bananabog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bill wants a physical form. </p><p>A series of 20-, 100-, and 300-word drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cherry

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This fic will contain mpreg (or some semblance of it). Also fair warning: Masquerades as Stanford/Bill, but is really more Stanford > Bill. The consent level will get more and more dubious with each update.

“Do you trust me?”

His reply is steady, yet good-humored.

“Of course, Bill.”  

Bill chuckles. He shimmies over to where Stanford has been studiously scribbling equations into the air and playfully circles the other once, before manifesting _inside_ the equation itself, grinning. (Or at least, Stanford can tell that he is. For a being with no mouth, Bill’s singular eye is impressively expressive.)

“Do you looove me?”

Ford rolls his eyes, but the quirk in his lips betrays his true emotions. “With mind and body,” he recites. “From now until the end of time.”

Bill exits the equation with a comical “pop” and a pleased laugh. He corrects Ford’s figures with a quick swipe of a finger, and Ford smiles in gratitude. For a moment, everything is as it should be, as it’s always been.

Then, “But _how_ much?”

“You’re acting more questionable than usual.” Ford continues writing, smirking a little when Bill continues to wheedle for his attention. “You _do_ realize that I’ve already basically pledged my entire existence to you – ”

“Yeah, well… that’s not going to be enough, unfortunately.”

His writing hand pauses mid-number and Ford’s brow furrows. “It… isn’t? Enough _for…?_ What else do you need, Bill? I’ll do anything.”

“Aaaanything?” Bill presses, rapidly batting his eyelashes in mock-coyness.

Ford snorts at his antics, but nods solemnly. “Of course, Bill... You know I would.”

“Excellent.” 

His muse pulses warmly at him, his aura briefly enveloping Ford in what he’s come to term as “Bill-kisses”, except this time it feels… different.  _Stronger._  Ford shivers involuntarily, gut tightening in a lazy roll of pleasure as the “kiss” passes through him. 

Bill casually draws a hand across Ford’s cheek as he floats by.

“ _Mrof lacisyhp_ ,” he whispers.

 Ford wakes with a mild stomach cramp but thinks nothing of it.

x x x

They continue working on the gateway-slash-portal as usual, but instead, whenever he _doesn't_  work on it, Ford has spent the last month and a half discussing ideas and sketching out designs for what Fiddleford has assumed to be a new crash dummy model. Ford’s designs of the dummy range from crude simplicity to uncanny realism, and are sometimes even hideously abstract, but the designs all share one thing in common.

Fiddleford pauses his work on the console machinery when yet another wadded up paper sails past his head and misses the overflowing waste bin.

“We can just… buy a regular mannequin,” he suggests gently, watching the larger man groan and rub an agitated hand over his mouth. “They don’t cost that much. We’re probably going to end up destroying most of them during the trial runs anyway, and getting them mass-produced would be a lot more cost-effective than building entirely new ones from…”

He trails off as Ford stalks over, grabs the waste basket, upturns it, and then proceeds to violently heave the contents of that day’s brunch into the bin.

“It’s not perfect,” Stanford grouses. He wipes off the residue on his lab coat sleeve (the other man frowns disapprovingly at this), like he hadn’t just been ill out of the blue _five seconds ago_ , “Not yet. But it has to be.”

Ford manages all of five steps towards his workbench before he has to sprint back towards the waste basket. Fiddleford awkwardly rubs his back as Ford retches for a good minute more, curled over the bin on his knees as his stomach revolts.

“I told you to toss out the leftovers,” he sighs. Ford fixes his glasses and grunts weakly in agreement.

It’s not until much later that afternoon that he realizes – he hadn’t eaten any leftovers.

x x x

 “I’m sorry.” He wrings his hands behind his back. “I’ve been trying. _Nothing_ seems to fit. And I want it to be _perfect_.”

Bill’s glare doesn’t waver an inch.

“…for you,” he adds lamely, feeling childish, because Bill has always loved the suck up, and with the muse’s current mood Ford’s guessing he’s going to need to do a whole lot more of that soon.

“Seventy-five days, Stanford Filbrick Pines.” It’s a low growl, and Bill must be really ticked to be calling him by his full, _actual_ name, “Two and a half months, and you _still_ haven’t figured it out. Why exactly did they call you a genius again?”

Ford gestures angrily, helplessly, at the mountains of wadded up blueprints scattered around his Dreamscape, at their feet. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you just… told me exactly what you wanted? Obviously having this physical vessel is important to you. You could have easily have made one yourself; yet, you want me to do it for you, except I can’t, because I _can’t_ settle on a design that embodies all your traits, or magnificence, or – ”

“Oh,  _Stanford_.” The patronization in the drawl hits him like a slap in the face. Ford folds his arms defensively and turns away, mouth tight. Bill giggles – _giggles_ , the bastard – and pats Ford’s cheek teasingly (almost condescendingly) as he swirls around him.

“Fine... I’ll give you a hint. You don’t need to build anything. Just keep on growing it like you’re already doing.”

His eyebrows bunch. “‘ _Growing_ ’ – ?” 

“Oh, and ginger tea helps. Or so I’ve heard. Ask that twig of your assistant to brew you some. He’s better at not burning down the house.”

His eyes fly open and his stomach gives a familiar churn. Ford curses and grabs for the bin.

 x x x

Everything clicks into place on day Seventy-Six when his usual pair of work pants suddenly don’t fit and Stanford’s never entered the Mindscape so fast in his life.

“I’m a man!” he shouts at Bill, who – of course – has the audacity to laugh at him, spinning blithely out of reach from his six-fingered grasp, “What on _earth_ made you – why didn’t you just – _what the hell, Bill?!_ ”

“I seem to recall a certain _someone_ promising me he was willing to do _anything_ to let me have a physical form.”

“Yes, but – _but_ – !” Stanford clutches at his hair and begins hyperventilating. “This is biologically impossible! Where is it even growing? Or attached to?! I don’t have the – the _apparatus_ for that sort of -- ! How is it going to -- And you didn’t even – Do gods even have spermatozoa?! _Why would they need them?_ How was the zygote even _conceived?!”_

Bill spreads his arms wide in unmasked glee. “‘The muse said to him, ‘The Holy Triangle will come on you. The power of the Most Angular will cover you. The –’ “

“ _You mentioned none of those things!_ ” Ford shrills, hands clasped over his ears, “Don’t – ”

“ ‘ – Holy Vessel you give form to will be called the New Lord and Master for all Eternity!’”  

Ford sinks to his knees and curls into a tight ball on the “floor” (they’re not really… standing. Or on a solid plane at all, for that matter). The position only serves to make him more aware of his current predicament as his stomach squishes against his thighs in an unfamiliar manner, and he moans pitifully.  

“How the hell am I going to explain this to Fiddleford?!”

“That’s easy.” Bill settles into his hair, and begins combing tiny fingers through his scalp. “Don’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revised the chapter slightly on 01/01/2016 since my writing style has changed a bit since starting this.


	2. In the Beginning There Was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pure Bill/Ford in here, mostly drabbles of their relationship and its evolution and build up prior to the main story. And sex.

Bill had sneered, when Ford had first confessed his feelings to the muse. It was more of a reverence and a soul-deep longing than love, really – Bill stimulates his curious intellect like no one he’s ever conversed with before and it’s _electrifying,_ he never wants it to end, there’s just _so_ much more to learn and absorb and he knows he isn’t worthy of Bill Cipher, he _knows,_ but he can’t help but want more of Bill, would Bill… accept him?

“Emotions mean very little to me, Sixer.” Bill flicks his nose. (Ford tries his best not to crumple visibly.) “They cloud the path of logic, make conviction doubt itself. It’s unnecessary clutter. You can invest all your love into a pawn, but in the end… it’s still nothing but a pawn.”

He snorts and rolls his eye. “Humans do very dumb things for the chemical reaction they call ‘love’.”

But it wasn’t a “no”.

To his great surprise and delight, Bill actually makes the effort to interact with him _more_ after that. It’s almost… sweet, considering Bill’s clear stance on the issue.

Ford has no complaints. He soaks, basks in the attention and the company of Bill Cipher like a thirsty sponge.

Bill “kisses” him one day as they’re coming down from the high of a long, satisfying discussion about parallel worlds. Ford blinks dumbly, as the glow slowly dissipates from around him.

“Bill, what…?”

“I don’t have a mouth.” Bill blinks once slowly – making it a wink – and pulses his aura at Ford again, a soft, gentle wave of body-warm honey-shaded light washing over his skin, and –

\- and Ford slams both hands over his mouth because he is going to scream, because Bill Cipher is _kissing_ him, because _Bill Cipher_ is kissing _him_ –

Bill snorts. “You’re welcome.”    

 x x x

The first time Bill truly possesses him is jarring.

“It’s gonna feel a lot different as compared to when I just shuck you out of your meat suit and borrow it.” Stanford’s seated in the lotus position, palms up on his knees, and he keeps his eyes closed and his breathing slow and even as Bill talks him through the process in a low mutter. “This time, we’ll be sharing the same body, the same mind. I’ll have access to all your memories – every fond moment, every shameful event, fear, celebrative, and even the ones you’ve buried on a subconscious level. And, any fleeting thoughts that go through your head while I’m in it? I’ll know. Every single idea, every breath you pull into your lungs, every involuntary muscle movement. I’ll feel them all, and you will too, except you can’t do anything about it unless I allow you to. Do you understand me, IQ?”

“I understand,” Stanford murmurs.  

Bill doesn’t reply. Ford continues drawing long, slow breaths, just waiting for –

The sensation slams into him like a freight train. Ford swears loudly, doubling over… except he doesn’t – can’t – because it’s Bill who’s holding him in place, snug-tight rooted deep inside the very core of his soul, filling _out inside all around_ him.

He’s simultaneously violated and liberated. His most repressed memories flash before him, blurring together: muffled laughter, stilted crying, threatening voices from his past scratching through his head like an old record. He knows Bill has always known about them, of course (“I know lots of things!”) but this is… this is different. It’s up-close too personal _too much_ invasive and –

\- and Stanford finds... that he’s okay with this.   

 _I trust you_ , he gasps to Bill.

Bill stretches Ford’s lips into a predatory grin.

“Well, well, well.”

  x x x

“You know what else is stupid? Human sex.”

Ford’s ears redden a little but Bill carries on ranting, waving a hand dismissively. “I get that it feels good. It’s amazing. It’s earth-shattering, violins play, blah blah. Did you know that humans are one of the few species on Earth – and across a majority of universes, really – to engage in coitus purely for pleasure? And they get in so much trouble making decisions with their genitals instead of their heads.”

Bill drains the balance of his tea (through his eye, and no matter how many times he’s seen him do it, Ford still cringes when the scalding hot Mindscape tea lands on Bill’s enlarged eyeball) and slams it dramatically onto the surface of their “table.” It shatters spectacularly before disintegrating.  

“No comment,” Ford says, and sips daintily at his own drink.

“Yeah, you get turned on by numbers with more than ten decimal places and more than three commas in them.” Bill waits until Ford is almost halfway through a swallow before he delivers his decisive blow. “And three-sided polygons, apparently.”

Ford’s still pounding his chest by the time Bill casually folds up the Mindscaped parasol, tea running off of it and disappearing mid-drip.

“I don’t find triangles sexy!” he blurts, and then when Bill just lazily cocks his eyebrow at him, half-lidded, “No! I’m not interested in you like… like _that._ Not physically. You don’t even have the necessary organs!”  

“Well, we are in the Mindscape.” Ford does not like The Glint in Bill’s eye. “We can be _anything_ we want to be…”

“No.”

The smirk in Bill’s eye only increases in size.

“…Bill, _no_ , for the love of all that is holy, do not – OH MY GOD, BILL, NO, BAD, THAT’S – THAT’S JUST FLAT OUT HORRIFYING  – _PUT THOSE AWAY!_ ”

x x x

But just because Bill doesn’t enjoy, or even have an interest in sex, doesn’t mean that he can’t comprehend the nature of it, or driving force of the desire behind it.

Ford’s internally berating himself a little (because Bill Cipher is a deity, a trans-dimensional being, _a god_ , of _course_ he’s not going to be bothered by trivial, _primitive_ urges like _sex_ , you idiot, it’s probably not even worth his time) and in retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have been thinking about Bill Cipher while choking one out in the bathroom, considering he’d just told the muse that he was never physically attracted to him in the first place. Ford’s never really considered himself or his sexuality, it just… isn’t a big part of what he prefers to delegate his mental processes to.  But he’s only human, and sometimes his body betrays him.

He’s learnt over the years that getting those urges out of the way as quickly as possible instead of repressing them is the fastest track to returning to his work.

Ford doesn’t quite realize he hasn’t actually been moving his own hand (Bill has become a stealthy motherfucker recently) until it stills without his permission. He swears.

_Goddammit, Bill, couldn’t you wait two minutes to –_

The hand gripping his sex pumps slowly, deliberately, once.

His brain fries.

_B-Bill, what are you –_

“Shhhh, Sixer.” Bill moves again, languidly – and Stanford would have rolled his eyes back into his skull if he had any control of them at that moment, “I’ve got you. Do you trust me?”

 _…yes?_ Does he? Oh, god. What is Bill trying to do to him?

“Then sit back and relax.”

It doesn’t take long. Ford’s babbling, broken, gone when he comes, wailing inside his head.

Bill chuckles through his mouth as he spills over.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have any exact definition for either of their sexualities. I feel that labels like "straight" or "pan-romantic" or "asexual" and such just can't be slapped onto something as complicated as we are, or, well, onto triangular space demons. But for the most part, for this story at least, I hc Ford to be kind of a "doesn't think about it much and cranks one out now and then because biology" guy and Bill as "this sex thing is so weird you humans are funny let's see all the shenanigans I can get up to with this". Please don't pitchfork me.
> 
> Tags have been updated and will be updated as the story progresses.


	3. Avocado

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All in sympathy for Fiddleford raise your hand.
> 
> 300-word drabble format still, but this one's interspersed with 20-word ones, too.

_“…So. I’m expecting.”_

_“Uh huh.”_

_“With your child.”_

_“If you want to call it that. Sure! Let’s not get technical.”_

x x x

He’s not the genius that Stanford is, but Fiddleford isn’t dumb.

Arriving at the conclusion was simple. One: Stanford had been throwing up for nearly two months. Two: He’d been showing more signs of fatigue than usual without any discernible explanation. Three: He’d lost interest in his favorite meals and had started consuming questionable choices of barely-edible food in replacement because he'd  _wanted_ to, and the last and most damning of all, Four: the entirety of his wardrobe seems to have been completely replaced by ridiculously baggy clothing.

He might as well have lit his way with neon signs and fireworks, with how painfully stereotypical his symptoms are. Fiddleford holds his tongue as Stanford makes a low sound of discomfort and slowly lays his head on the workbench again, hunching over on himself with his arms hugging his stomach.

His employer, his friend – his very _male_ friend – is pregnant. And miserable with it. Fiddleford hadn’t endured nine months of the exact same with his wife without also learning to identify all the cons that came with being so, and Stanford is displaying every single one of them and more.

Why Ford is “ill” is obvious. It’s why Ford is even “ill” to begin with that really concerns him.   

Fiddleford comes back with a small plate of crackers spread with peanut butter, and a warm glass of honeyed water, and sets them beside Stanford’s head. The other man squints up at him.

“It helps keeps the nausea down.” Fiddleford shrugs. “At least, it did for my wife. And I’m not going to pry,” he adds quickly, as what little color left drops from Stanford’s face, “I don’t know how or why and frankly, I’m not sure I _want_ to know… but don’t be a stranger. Alright?”

“…Yeah,” Ford mumbles. “…Thank you.”

x x x

_“Swear to me this isn’t some horrible prank.”_

_“Cross my heart and hope to die!”_

_“You don't_ have _a heart.”_

x x x

 

The rest of the week goes by without (much) incident. Between the first trimester drawing to a close, and his lab partner’s silent but unquestioning support, Stanford seems to be getting better. There’re still bags under his eyes and his entire body aches, but it’s tolerable now. Without the need for the “crash dummy” to be made, the two scientists pick up progress with building the portal, and Ford even manages enough energy to pull a couple of all-nighters again for the first in a long time.

He wakes up at the exact strike of midnight, on the first day of his second trimester, from a comfortable nodding doze and straight into a world of searing, blistering agony, and he _screams_.

“ _Bill!_ ” It isn’t much better retreating into the Mindscape. He’s panicking, not because of the pain, but because its localization doesn’t make any _sense;_ It seems to be radiating from _between_ his privates, instead of his abdomen, and he has no idea _what in holy hell is going on_ , “What’s happening?!”  

“Oh, heya, Sixer!” Bill _fucking waves at him_ , “Just the usual, you know, being great, admiring my beautiful self, making deals - ”

“ _I meant with ME!!_ ”

Bill’s hands fly to the approximate location of his “cheeks” in overly-exaggerated astonishment. “Is today The Day already? Oh, my goodness! It _completely_ slipped my mind! Congratulations, you’ve survived the first three months.” He claps his hands. “I’ve decided you can probably handle the remaining six and thought I should complete the preparations!”

“'Preparations'?! For _what?!”_

“Well, _that’s_ got to come out somehow.” Bill polishes his nails against his bow tie. “And my vessel suuure as hell isn’t going to make its grand entrance out of a rectal cavity.”

“…YOU GAVE ME A FREAKING _VAGINA?!”_ he roars.

“Better than a cloaca!”

x x x

_“Hey, Fiddleford, uh… take the next week off. Alright?”_

_“…I don’t want to know, do I?”_

_“No. No, you don’t.”_

x x x

“I’m done!” Stanford swipes the material off his desk in a single, furious sweep. Something smashes and spills before disintegrating with the rest of the mess. “I’m done, Bill, I’m _done_ playing your games!”

“Aww, come on, Fordsy, don’t be like that!” Bill laughs and circles around him cheerfully. “You know stress isn’t good for the – ”

“I MEAN IT!” he shouts, and Bill actually does sober at this, his eye widening, “You can’t – _Damn it, Cipher!_ I’ll do anything for you, but I won’t do this! Not without _knowing_ what’s going to happen before it actually _does!”_

“…are you still upset over the whole getting a second orifice thing…?”

“I’m upset because I feel like _you_ don’t trust me!” Ford snarls. “You think I wouldn’t – that I can’t handle it? That I’ll say no? Why won’t you _talk_ to me about things like this?! When it actually counts?!”  

His muse stares at him. “What do you mean… ‘when it counts’?”

Ford’s arms make wide, aborted gestures, before settling on angrily jabbing at the slight swell of his stomach. “This! What -- what _are_ we, Bill? Isn’t this important to you? Shouldn’t I matter enough to be told what’s going on?” He inhales sharply. “…Don’t _I_ matter? To you?”  

They stare each other down.  The silence stretches uncomfortably.

Bill flickers. “…Oh,” he says.

“’Oh’? Just, ‘oh’?” Ford is livid. He’s going to fucking throttle Bill, even if he doesn’t have a neck. He’s going to kill him even if Bill is immortal. “You son of a -- ”

Bill grows huge then, towering over him. For a second Ford thinks he might have gone too far, but then… Bill encompasses him in his aura, thrumming soothingly. Ford stills.

“I’m sorry,” Bill says.  

They remain that way for a long while.

x x x

_“Fiddleford speaking. … Oh, hey, Stanford! …oh, that’s. Wow. That’s great, yeah, sure, I’ll…” Sigh. “I’ll take another week off.”_

x x x

Bill fills him in, just like he promised. It’s too much detail to comfortably process in one go, but Stanford does his best to take it all in without blanching. He thinks Bill may have looked slightly impressed, but that only spurs him on more.

“There will be complications.” Bill traces the beginning of a sigil on his bare abdomen. Ford can only understand half of the symbols used in it; the rest are more complex, ancient cryptograms the muse has yet to teach him. “It goes without saying, of course – your human body isn’t capable of carrying a fetus to term on its own to begin with, even after biological modifications – and much less a fetus imbued with _my_ magic. The previous Chosen never made it past the second trimester. They all failed me. And so I’ve been without a vessel to call my own, for thousands of centuries. But you, Stanford Pines...” Bill completes the sigil. “I hand-picked you for a reason. _You’re_ different. _Special.”_

Stanford moves to put his hands behind his back out of habit, but Bill grabs them, hold his hands up between them. “You were meant for great things, Stanford Pines. And we’ll accomplish them. You… and me.”

Ford nods. “Together.”

Bill draws back from Stanford and extends his hand, blue flames crackling up the length of it. Ford takes it without hesitation.

They shake on it.

The sigil lights up, the same brilliant shade of cobalt surrounding their hands. Ford shudders as he feels Bill’s magic seep into him, strengthening him, and as the flames die out he takes a deep breath and straightens cautiously. His aches are gone, and for once he’s not constantly teetering on the edge of exhaustion.   

Bill pulses faintly at him, drained but smiling.

“Don’t disappoint me, Sixer.”

x x x

Ford presses an envelope into his hands when they meet. It’s full pay for two weeks.

Fiddleford shakes his head.  
      


	4. Ignorance is Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex. Lots of it. 
> 
> Also betrayal. Lots of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning for possible body horror. Couple this with the mpreg tag and give it a think before reading.

“You need to stop interrupting my – _shit_ – my private time,” he hisses, when he finds himself possessed (yet again) during (another one of) his moments of personal relief. “I thought someone said he was – _oh, god_ – said he didn’t care for sex.” 

 _I don’t._ Bill thumbs his cockhead (and this should have been really fucking bizarre, because Bill is doing this weird half-possession thing where he’s only controlling Ford’s arms and interchangeably his mouth, but the rest of it is all Ford, and how in the hell did partial possession even work, and why was Bill so fucking _fucked up_ , and ‘why does Stanford like it’ is the more important question here, really), _but I know you do._

“That makes zero sense,” Ford gasps out (this is practically masturbation, so how and why does it feel _better_ when it’s Bill doing it, and that was another thing that made zero sense), “There’s nothing in it for – _ah!_ – nothing in it for you.”

 _You know, for a genius, you’re pretty dense sometimes, IQ._ Bill scissors Ford’s fingers vigorously inside himself, avoiding a spot on purpose and Ford’s noises of protest at the action. _Isn’t sex supposed to bring humans closer together? Besides, it’s fun to take you apart. The fact that you_ like _being taken apart only makes it better._ Bill angles his fingers, thrusts up hard, and is rewarded when Ford’s stifled pants give way to wanton moaning. _You’re my favorite toy, Sixer._ (He thrusts his fingers again.) _And you’re mine_ (thrust) _and mine_ (thrust) _alone._

He shoves Ford’s fingers up as far as they will go, crooking them just so, roughly milking Ford's prostate through his release as he shouts down the walls with a trembling mantra of, “Oh! Oh! OH! OHH!” 

He can get used to this.

 x x x

Fiddleford raises an eyebrow at him when he appears at the kitchen table one morning in a bath robe instead of his usual work attire.

“Don’t,” Stanford warns him, hunching over even more, glaring as the other man’s grin starts literally growing from ear to ear, “Not a single. Word.”

“I know that look.” He’s unable to keep the gentle teasing out of his voice. Stanford scowls at him and turns pinker. “You’re showing proper and you can’t hide it. Not anymore.”

“I will fire you,” Ford groans, but there’s no real threat to his words. He hesitantly unwraps his arms from his middle and sure enough, it’s _there_ , even through the thick fluffiness of the robe. Hunching over doesn’t make it any less obvious, not anymore, and there’s no way he can keep attributing it to having a healthy gut now.

He’s _pregnant,_ and obviously so. Thank god for Fiddleford. Stanford isn’t sure he can leave the house anymore in his current state.    

“At least your morning sickness is over with.” The slighter man slaps him genially on the back as Stanford slides into the seat beside him. Ford just sulks as he knocks back his apple juice (and that’s another thing he’s going to miss besides his old body – caffeine). “Come now, it ain’t so bad, is it? You’ve been looking a whole lot better lately, too. I tell ya, my wife was glowin’ like Christmas come early once she hit twenty weeks…”

Stanford laughs and smiles as Fiddleford speaks fondly of his wife and his now months-old son.  He doesn’t know Stanford’s been better partially due to Bill’s magic as well, of course (and he probably should talk to Fiddleford about Bill at some point), but for the moment he allows himself to relax and just be.

 x x x

Stanford’s certainly been spending a lot more, ah, private time as of late than he’s ever had before prior to getting “knocked up”. Ford insists it’s just hormones ( _or… something, hell, nothing about this was natural to begin with, what else am I supposed to do? Work with a hard-on all day? And thank you, Bill, but it’s really not necessary to help out in these situations, I mean it, get the fuck out, oh my god_ ) but between the both of them they know that’s only part of the cause.

Stanford _worships_ him. To an unhealthy degree maybe, sure, but neither of them have complaints about that.  And as much as he protests it verbally? They both know, deep down, that Stanford wants it. It flatters Stanford and turns him on beyond belief that his inspiration, his muse, his _god,_ chose him, wants him, likes him prostrate in mind and body like this, and if Stanford hadn’t really paid much attention to sex before, he sure as hell does now.

It’s a win-win situation.

It’s almost always his goal to get Ford into the state of complete incoherency, and this time is no different. Bill takes his time (and he has _so_ much time), delighting in the way Ford mewls his name, the way he comes completely apart at the seams. It’s funny how easy it is, to reduce the proud, way-too-repressed human to nothing more than a base, primordial urge.

 _You are mine_ , he reminds Stanford, as he increases the speed of their stroking. He splays the six fingers of their free hand across the soft, rounded swell of his abdomen. _And this… is mine._

 _Yours_ , Stanford cries. _Yours, yours until the end of time, Bill, I love you, need you, oh my god, Bill...!_

He shatters beautifully.

 x x x

 “Fiddleford! FIDDS! Get over here! _Hurry!”_

The inventor is by his side faster than the time it took to shout for him.

“Stanford, are you alright? What’s wrong?!” He grips his friend’s shoulder, worry etched into the lines of his face as Stanford quakes beneath him, clutching at the blueprints that have been haphazardly strewn over the workbench. “Oh sweet Lord have mercy, are you hurting? It’s a fifteen minute drive to the hospital from here, can you…?”

Stanford shakes his head hard, trembling silently, and it startles the inventor once he realizes that Stanford is _laughing._

“Oh my god, Fidds,” Ford gasps, light-headed, and he pulls the man closer towards the table. He stabs at a section of the latest blueprint with his finger, leaving small black smudges of graphite and quill ink across the graph. “ _I’ve got it._ I’ve found the missing puzzle piece, the missing link. It’s going to _work.”_

Fiddleford drops his hands from Ford’s shoulders, pushing his glasses higher up his nose as he presses his face to the paper. His eyes grow wide. Soon he’s mirroring Ford’s elated expression. “Stanford, that’s – this is incredible! This is _crazy!_ How in the _world_ did you come up with this?!”

“Little help from a friend.” Stanford barks out a shrill laugh. Fiddleford has no idea what he’s referring to but he laughs along with, the giddiness catching on. It’s going to work! “Oh my god, Fidds, if this… if this pulls through, we’ll be famous. This could change the very fabric of _existence_ as we know it!”

“What are we waiting for?!” The other man sweeps up the materials in his arms and rushes towards the basement. “I’ll go make the necessary modifications!”

Stanford follows after him as best as he can. Bill will be _so_ pleased.

 x x x

 It’s deafening, oppressive, thick and suffocating, and there’s tension in the air. It’s not entirely from the rampant amount of electricity still swirling in front of them.

“Fiddleford…” He reaches out again, but the inventor flinches away as though burned, clutching at himself. His eyes are wild as his gaze darts from Stanford, to his swollen stomach, to the portal, back to Stanford again.

“Fiddleford, what did you see? Is it working?” He wrings his hands. “Talk to me!”

 “You have no idea, don’t you?” It’s a bare whisper. Fiddleford looks terrified. “My god, Stanford… What have you _done?”_

“What are you – ”

 _“This_ – ” the other points, shaking uncontrollably, at the screaming vortex behind them – “is not a gateway! And _that_ – ” he jabs accusingly at Ford’s abdomen, and Stanford’s hands come up to cup it immediately in an unbidden, protective gesture “ – is not a human child!”  

Stanford’s blood turns to ice.

“W-what did you say?” he stammers.

Fiddleford shakes his head, inconsolable. He tears at his hair. “You’ll bring about the end of the world with this. Destroy them both, before they destroy us all!”

He curls in on himself. His heart is hammering. “I can’t do that! This is… It’s _my…!”_

“ _NO, IT ISN’T!_ ” Fiddleford screams. “Don’t you understand, Ford? You don’t know what you’re _doing,_ what you’ve _done!_ IT’S NOT YOURS, STANFORD! _IT ISN’T HUMAN!_ ”

“No.” The world crashes down around him, spinning, and he staggers back against the console that Fiddleford had put together just hours ago, “No, you’re _lying,_ that can’t be –! I don’t believe you!”

“I’m leaving.” His frightened gaze meets Ford’s for the last time. “I’m sorry, Stanford. I can’t do this. Not after seeing what I’ve seen.” He swallows hard.

“Destroy them. Destroy _it._ Please… For your own sake.”

 x x x

The Mindscape is more ominous than he ever remembers it being.

There’s nothing this time. No memories. No floating books and teacups. Not a single star. It’s just hollow, empty, black space, stretching on into infinity.

Bill is the only splash of color in this realm, stark lightning yellow against the pitch darkness. The triangular being gazes at him, unmoving, unreadable.

“Bill.” Ford walks up towards the… towards him. “…Bill.”

“Stanford,” Bill returns cheerily.

He stops directly before him. The other is usually smaller-sized in the Mindscape, never larger than the size of a house cat in his default state, but now Stanford has to crane his head back to look him in the eye.

He feels small. Vulnerable.

Helpless.

“Tell me it isn’t true.” He wishes desperately he didn’t sound like he was begging. “What Fiddleford said… about the portal, about our child. Bill, please, I… I _trust_ you, there has to be some misunderstanding; what Fiddleford saw was a _mistake,_ there’s no way that – ”  

Bill starts giggling.

 “You are the walking definition of denial right now, you know that?” Bill sighs affectionately. _“God,_ you’re cute.”

“This is a joke.” He wills himself to stop shaking. “It’s a very good one, Bill, but I think… I think it’s gone far enough now, you can stop – ”

“Yeah. Yeah, it was all just an elaborate prank. Man, you shoulda seen the look on your face, Sixer! Comedy material.”

He jerks up at that, relieved, and he opens his mouth to express as such until he sees that Bill’s expression hasn’t changed.

“See, this is why I like you.” He grins at Stanford. “You’re just… so innocent. So trusting. So gullible.”

“No,” Ford whispers.

“Yes.” Bill hovers up close to him.

“What made you think any of this was _yours?”_  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUNNNNNNNNN!


	5. Acorn Squash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cake is a lie.
> 
> 20-word and 300-word drabble formats again in this update.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter include: emotional abuse, emotional manipulation, self-harm, attempted abortion, body horror. Major angst like up the freaking wazoo. Proceed with caution. This chapter is... yeah. Massive trigger warning, etc. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who have reviewed and/or left kudos so far!

_“Here’s a puzzle! What’s a five-letter word for ‘powerful supernatural being’? It starts with ‘D-E-’ and_ doesn’t _end in ‘I-T-Y’.”_

x x x

Meditation was a habit for Stanford that had started in his teenage years (don’t think about Stanley, don’t think about Stanley) and which he’d carried over into his adulthood (focus on Bill, focus on Bill).

He likes it.

It’s calming and relaxes him. If he ever gets too worked up, all he has to do is sit quietly, tamper his emotions, and concentrate on the flow of his breathing until that’s all he needs to think about.  It comes in useful as well, for the rare occasions he boxes himself into a thinking corner, and then all he needs to do is let himself unravel, and restart from a clean slate.

He’d started meditating on a more scheduled basis, right after his first fateful encounter with the muse. To be able to meet with Bill in the Mindscape while he was awake, and not just in the Dreamscape while he was asleep, Stanford began training himself to be able to empty his mind as quickly as possible, whenever he wanted to. It had taken a grueling amount of patience, but his thirst for answers, and his want to spend more time with this strange, magnetic oddity who seemed to have them, had acted as his fuel.  

After nearly a year, he is able to access the Mindscape within five seconds of mediation.

“Good work, IQ,” and Stanford had been unable to keep the unbridled joy from manifesting in his face, across his entire body, as Bill lavished him with his praise, “I knew you had it in you.”

The meditation sessions turn somewhat more intimate between them, as Stanford progresses through his second trimester. Bill soothes his belly gently with Ford’s borrowed physicality, and sends reassuring throbs of his aura to the baby when they’re in his Mindscape.

It’s perfect.

x x x

_“‘Demon’.” His voice is barely audible. “You’re a demon.”_

_Bill finger-guns at him. “Ding ding ding! We have a winner!”_

x x x

He can’t speak.

He can’t breathe.

“Cat got your tongue?” Bill teases, and laughs in circles around him. “Why are you so surprised? You got all of your ideas and breakthroughs for the portal from _me._ And you’ve known all along that this” – he casually pats the swell of Ford’s stomach, and Ford recoils with horrified shock at the contact – _“obviously_ wasn’t a biologically possible concept for the human body. Why did you expect it to even contain a trace of _you?”_

“But – you – _”_ He feels cold. There’s a sharp slice of ice wedged between his ribcage, and every word from the other only twists it wider, “You made me – you said it was – _”_

“I said nothing about it being a _human_ child, Stanford Pines.” Bill widens his eye and he plays back a perfect rendition of their conversations together, scenes flashing across his eyeball like a projector. The words “fetus” and “vessel” echo horribly in the dark space between them. “Much less one actually containing _your_ genetic make up! Good one!” Bill slings an arm around Stanford’s shoulders and ruffles his hair. “No, all that was _you!_ Romanticizing ideas, misinterpreting things…  Twisting them to suit your dismal _fallacies._ You’ve got one heck of an imagination there!”

“I trusted you.” The ice slides straight into his heart, dissolving into his blood and it’s no longer ice, but acid that’s being pumped around his body, and Stanford is dying. He’s dying and there’s nothing he can do about it. “You said you were sorry, that you – I thought – I actually _believed_ – !”  

“What, this?” Bill “kisses” him. It’s a sledgehammer to his gut. He continues, relentless, “ _Stanford, I love you! I’m so proud of you! Stanford, I’m sorry!_ ” He laughs. “I told you, Sixer. 

"Emotions mean nothing to me.”  

x x x

_“A deal’s a deal, Sixer! You can’t stop me, but it would be fun to watch you try! Cute, even!”_

x x x

It isn’t human.

It isn’t _his._

He’s nothing but an incubator.

He’s nothing but a puppet.

He’s nothing but a _toy._

_‘You can invest all your love into a pawn, but in the end, it’s still nothing but – ’_

“A pawn,” he repeats. His lips move, and he feels the words leave them, but he doesn’t feel, there’s nothing. He’s numb. “Just a pawn.”

He hadn’t been able to maintain his connection to the Mindscape. Not that he’d wanted to hear any more. Their last conversation replays over and over in his head like a broken record, every word unflinchingly clear.

Stanford’s backed himself up into a corner of the room, tucked as tightly into the fetal position as he can manage (He chortles, mirthlessly. It’s ironic). The disassembled portal fizzles out stray sparks on occasion, but remains dormant otherwise.

He curls forward – as much as he can with the _obstruction_ in his way – and buries his hands in his hair.

He had assumed that the sigil that Bill had drawn on him prior had been to help fortify and repair him, while his body adjusted to the demands of the _thing_ that was consuming his biological resources. Bill hadn’t lied, but while the sigil stabilized him and prevented him from wearing out, it also served as protection for while Stanford carried _It_  to term.

He’d tried to get rid of it as soon as he’d exited the Mindscape. The knife blade had curled back on itself and away from his stomach like softened butter.

Stanford starts screaming.

He keeps screaming until his throat is raw.

He keeps screaming until he can taste blood in the back of his mouth.

He doesn’t recognize the sensation at first, but the instant he connects it, he sicks violently over himself.  

It’s _moving._

 x x x

He laughs. He’d thought that explaining this to _Fiddleford_ would be hard.

Stanford mails out the postcard to New Mexico.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up FUCK YEAH STANLEY YOU CAN BET I'VE BEEN DYING TO WRITE THE BROTHERS DEALING WITH THIS BULLSHIT SINCE PART 1
> 
> No offense or disrespect meant to anyone reading this who has self-harm/suicidal issues, or have/had/are dealing with emotional abuse or abuse of any kind, or who were/are pregnant and have/had to consider abortion. It isn't a fun road at all and my thoughts go out to you if you are/have/had to dealing with any of the above. Do take care of yourselves.


	6. Planning and Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Brothers. It's just called Two Brothers.
> 
> As a heads-up, the Stanley/Stanford in this fic will be completely platonic.
> 
> Mentions of animal experimentation and some slight operational squick. No actual animals were harmed in the making of this fanfic.

It’s the first time Stanford’s done anything on his own for a long while (he misses Fiddleford, _christ,_ does he miss him), but while the absence of the other man is harshly felt, he’s grateful for it. He already anticipates having to ward off questions such as, “What do you need fifty pet mice and a surgical tool kit for?” and “Why do you need this much titanium this quickly again?”; having to explain why he remained wearing three layers of winter clothes indoors while shopping with another man was not another he wished to deal with.     

He hasn’t interacted with the towns' people much since he’d moved to Gravity Falls to begin with, so thankfully all he has to deal with are some odd looks and whispers, as he rings up his five-digit purchase at the checkout. (Behind him, a snobby customer loudly bitches about some nutjob who’d bought up _every single can_ of Baron Num Nums’ beans the store had to offer. Ford pointedly ignores the cashier’s accusatory stare as he shoves said cans into his grocery cart.)  

The rest of the week – and eventually, the month – goes easier. He gets through twenty-two of the mice before he finally succeeds in keeping one alive and well past the operation (five by accident, seven from mishap and ten from trauma). Ford calls it a day once the mouse shows no signs of infection or instability after forty-eight hours.

The copier, miraculously, holds his weight as he multiplies himself by five, and then some. His clones nod solemnly at him, and a newly-bald Ford closes his eyes as one clone puts him under, and another picks up a sterilized scalpel.

If Bill won’t let him remove It, he’ll just have to find a way to keep Bill from It instead.

 x x x

He’s still bedridden from the self-inflicted operation to his skull by the time Stanley (or at least, he _hopes_ to god it’s Stanley) bangs on his door.

“It’s goddamn _freezing_ out here, you jackass!” The voice carries faintly through the floorboards, but there’s no mistaking that gruff timbre anywhere. “If this is some kinda sick _joke_ – ”

“It’s him,” he mumbles. Clone Four gets up with an annoyed grunt, stomping up the stairs. Stanford hears the door creak open. There’s a brief argument as Stanley and his clone shout at each other… and then even more shouts when what he presumes are Clones Two and Three make their appearance as well.

There’s scuffling, loud banging, _more_ shouting, and then a louder crash as the clones practically wrestle his twin through the door and into the basement where he is.

 “What the _fuck,”_ Stanley shouts. He punches Clone Three in the face. Clones Four and Two support him, baring their teeth at the newcomer. “Stanford? _Which one of you is_ you?! What in holy _hell_ is – ”

“ _Please stop yelling_ ,” Ford grits out. His head is starting to throb. “Also, please, stop maiming my clones. I’m kind of relying on them to survive at the moment.”

It’s only then that Stanley spots him, the only body lying in a bed amidst the sea of clones. Ford watches as his twin’s jaw drops and his eyes practically bug out of his head.

He knows he’s probably a sight, between the layer of fuzz that’s only just began to sprout back over his scalp, and the irrefutable bulk of his middle, even while swathed in layers of blankets (his clones hadn’t replicated his being “pregnant”, thankfully, so at least _they_ still looked normal). But goddammit… Stanley has a _mullet._

“Hey, Stanley,” Ford manages.

 x x x

 “ _What the fuck_ ,” Stanley repeats.

Ford closes his eyes and mentally rubs the bridge of his nose.

“Ford?” Stan whispers. “Is that you?”

Ford bites back a sarcastic retort. “Yes.”

“Jesus.” Something heavy hits the floor (Stanford guesses it’s his twin’s backpack) and winter boots thump across the room towards him. His twin’s face comes into view above him and Stanley looks… Stanford isn’t sure. He wants to pin it down as disbelief, but there’s also a large amount of shock and consternation and… something like hurt? warring for the forefront. “Oh my _god,_ Stanford. You… you’re _sick,_ you’ve got like… a stomach tumor, or, or something…”

Ford snorts. He can’t help it. “Yeah, a tumor. I wish.”

Stan’s eyebrows rise so high they disappear into his hair. “Oh god. It’s gotten into your brain, too. I knew those things spread fast, but not like that!”

“Please stop talking,” the clones chorus at Stanley.

The other man looks ready to bolt. “Well, you’d better start, then, because I’m not sure how much longer I can stay standing up.”

“That’s fine.” Clone One comes over and shoves something into Stanley’s hands. “Just take this, and you can be on your way.”

His twin blinks dumbly down at Stanford’s first journal.

“Take this book, get on a boat, and sail away as far as you can. To the edge of the earth.” Stanford closes his eyes, and misses the gut-wrenching expression that briefly passes over his twin’s face. “Bury it where no one can find it.”

“…you’re kidding me.”

“Stanley, you don’t understand – ”

“No, I _do_ understand,” Stan growls. He thrusts the journal back towards the clones. Ford’s eyes widen as Stan glowers menacingly over his prone body. “I understand ‘ _I Fucked Up Bad_ ’ when I see it. Now _start. Talking.”_

 x x x

 They haven’t spoken in nearly a decade.

“Stanley’s doin’ good,” was all Ma ever had to say about him. _Stanley’s still alive._

He never asked, and Ma never elaborated. It didn’t stop his thoughts from wondering about his twin whenever he lay awake at night, listening as Fiddleford snored softly in the bunk above him, snores he was ashamed he (sometimes) pretended were someone else’s. It didn’t stop him from fantasizing and desperately hoping (wishing wanting _needing)_ that his persistent yet silent prank caller would one day reveal his identity, apologize for ruining his life, and admit that he’d missed him, he was so sorry, could Ford ever find it in him to forgive him for messing up his entire future…? And of course he would, because he was a benevolent, magnanimous brother, and all would be forgiven as long as Stanley never did anything like that ever again…  

But nothing had changed. Ford graduated from Backsupsmore without his brother to applaud him and moved out of New Jersey without saying goodbye.

He’d tried rationalizing it (they’d been joined at the figurative hip since birth; he’d never had anyone but Stan to turn to before; the void he felt was only because his entire life prior had been nothing _but_ Stan, but now there was _so_ much more of the world that he had yet to discover, that he could fill it up with) but still the dull ache in his chest never completely went away.

At least, not until he’d met Bill. And Bill had filled the void wonderfully; put down roots inside the deepest, most intricate parts of him before completely and utterly destroying him.

When Stanford talks… and when Stanley genuinely, truly _listens_ to him without (much) question or judgment, Stanford feels… home.

God, he’d missed Stanley.

 x x x

“You are an _idiot,”_ Stanley snaps, when Ford finishes his backstory. His fists are white-knuckled, trembling atop his knees.

Ford smiles, grimly.

Stan rakes his hand through his unruly hair in frustration. “And you were worried about a goddamn _book._ Christ, Sixer. What the hell were you thinking? That you could get through this on your own? I still can’t believe you installed a _metal plate,_ _in your own head, by yourself_. I’m no doctor, and even I can count all the ways that could have gone horridly wrong.”

“I had test subjects.” Ford shrugs. “It worked.” He shuts his eyes and wills down a sudden wave of nausea as he feels the Thing stirring inside of him. Its movements have grown more frequent as he tips over into the third and final trimester, and he’s put off thinking about the end game for as long as he can. Stan, however, doesn’t miss the way Ford’s grip tightens painfully over his abdomen. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I’m as close to immortality as I can get for now. Bill won’t let me come to harm, at least not while I’m still carrying his… this… _Thing._ I figured I might as well take advantage of that fact to block him out.”

“You keep calling it ‘Thing’,” Stan says slowly. “Why is that?”

Ford knits his eyebrows. “I _told_ you. What Fiddleford said he _saw,_ what Bill said about the _ritual_ – ”

“He said none of the previous carriers ever made it past the sixth month, right? He’s _never_ succeeded with this baby-making thing before. So…” Stan bites his lower lip, sensing dangerous territory. “… how would he know?

“How does he _know_ that it’s definitely… one-hundred-percent _not_ human?”

Ford’s breath catches in his throat.

Inside him, a tiny spark of Hope reignites.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BUT WILL THERE BE MIRACLES? WHEN YOU BELIEVE?
> 
> I never take myself seriously I am sorry
> 
> You're reading a fic about a man who gets magically pregnant with demon spawn without actually doing the do, I can get away with as many medical inaccuracies as I want regarding that head operation


	7. Cabbage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanford and Stanley's relationship with each other, both past and present. Slight hurt/comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100- and 300- drabble formats.
> 
> Up until Chapter 6 this story has (more or less) been (extremely loosely) following the timeline of canon events up until Stanley shows up to Stanford's postcard. It starts diverging completely from here on out.

_“Can’t sleep.”_

_The whisper is as light as the touch on his shoulder._

_Stan rubs his bleary eyes. His brother shuffles shyly in front of him, pillow crumpled against his chest._

_“My bed’s_ closer _to the boogey man than yours, Poindexter.”_

_His twin giggles at the joke, eyes flitting briefly up towards the top bunk. “That’s okay. I know you’ll fight him off.”_

_“Dang straight.” Stan puffs up his chest proudly and beats on it with his fists._

_Ford crawls in under the comforter with him. Both boys fling casual, innocent arms over each other as they snuggle closer together._

x x x

He’s taken to reading his brother’s journals, when he isn’t helping Ford to spray paint demon circles. Or put together voodoo repelling crap. Or engraving sigil-y things onto the wooden walls and/or floor, or making sure his twin actually eats, drinks and rests _enough_ to keep his vitals functioning.

Although the drawings help, Stanley doesn’t quite understand some of the big, complicated words that Ford appears to favor using in his records. He’s ashamed, and somewhat aggravated at first, when he ends up having to ask Ford to explain their meaning to him, in order to understand his journals better.

Stan fully expects some level of condescension from the other. He’s both surprised and relieved when Ford doesn’t incline towards anything of the sort.                    

“You’re just trying to help.” Ford continues working on his blueprints (not for the portal, of course). He’s trying to sound casual, but there’s the same forced, uncomfortable restraint to his voice that Stan knows he probably has in his own.

“Yeah, I know, I’m just…” _Used to you being an absolute know-it-all asshole._ Stan bites his tongue. “…thanks, Poindexter.”

Ford opens his mouth. Then shuts it. He nods once, meeting Stan’s eyes only briefly, and then he’s back to being absorbed in his drawings.

Stan eventually comes across the logs where Ford has dutifully chronicled every significant (and insignificant) event during his “pregnancy”, starting from the day when he’d confirmed with the demon that Ford was indeed “helping to construct Bill’s physical form”. The journal entries seem slightly more personalized and excited than the other accounts across the journals. At least, they do until about Week 25. Then, the logs suddenly turn curt, detached... almost clinical.

 _Grief_ , Stan realizes. He thumbs at a particularly splotchy page. _Ford never was good at dealing with his emotions._

x x x

_“Can’t sleep.”_

_“It’s just prom night, Sixer. You’ll be_ fine.”

_Ford merely continues grinding his teeth together. It’s loud enough that Stan can hear it from where he’s sleeping (or at least he’s been attempting to) on the opposite end of their room._

_Stan sighs and rolls over so he can face his twin. “Don’t make me recite the names of all the current players in the NFL.”_

_The grinding pauses._

_“That… might actually help,” Ford admits sheepishly._

_Stan groans, but obliges. He lists off every player and touchdown he can remember._

_The grinding slows, fades, and eventually tapers off._

x x x

The brothers live in an unspoken, but agreed arrangement.

Stan stays with Ford. (They both know Stan would have stayed regardless of Ford asking him to.) At least, he stays until this entire ordeal with _the Thing_ is over. Ford hasn’t thought much beyond that. His unresolved history with his estranged twin is another can of worms he’s not ready to deal with just yet, and Stanley seems to echo the sentiment. Neither of them bring up The Fight, nor what they’ve done the past ten years they’ve been apart, and Ford is careful to ensure he doesn’t antagonize the last and only person he has left that he hopes he can still rely on.

They’re both highly uncomfortable with the concept of sharing a room again, but Ford has determined this will unfortunately become necessary as his “due date” draws close. While the demon seems to be strictly following a time frame of exactly nine sets of thirty days, Ford isn’t taking any chances. He highlights the last four weeks on the calendar in bright red marker (the “due date” is circled multiple times, angrily) as the time frame where he absolutely _cannot_ leave the Bill-proofed shelters he’s constructed: in his basement, his room, his study (and all the bathrooms, “ _Because!_ ” he’d retorted at Stan’s look of _incredulity),_ or the specially-fortified bunker he plans to stay at inside the woods.  

“Kill me,” he instructs. There’s no emotion in his voice. Stan flinches. “If I can get through the process and get _It_ out without Bill taking over, I’ll do it. But if at any point, you see my eyes turn yellow… if at _any_ point, I start not acting like myself… you end me. _Immediately._ Am I _clear,_ Stanley?”

“...Yeah.” It’s the worst lie Stan’s ever told. “Yeah, okay.”

x x x

_Can’t sleep._

Stan has no idea how many times this has occurred before, but it’s obvious that it’s been for too long.

_Can’t sleep._

The words start out frantic, harsh, stark against the blank pages. They grow illegible, more exhausted the longer the message repeats itself, and their author struggles against a clearly inevitable defeat.

_Can’t sleep._

His brother is slumped over his desk. The pen dangles loosely from his fingers.

 _Can’t sleep mustn't fall asleep don't_ want _to fall asleep_ don’t sleep _I can’t_

Stanford makes a pained noise. His pupils move beneath his eyelids, but he doesn’t wake.

x x x

He’s plagued by horrific visions nearly nightly.

He tries to stave off sleep as much as he can. Ford’s back on various sources of caffeine at this point (because really, why should he care anymore? Ford has come to the conclusion that whatever’s taken up residence inside his body is most likely not subject to the same guidelines that govern the course of a normal, _human_ pregnancy). Sure, maybe he has to take more trips to the bathroom than necessary, with the rate of coffee he’s been depleting, but if an extra cup or two (or three, or five) means he can put off that particular period of time in hell where the minutes seem like hours, and an hour seems like a lifetime, Ford is going to do it.

It doesn’t help that his usual method for calming down – meditation – is no longer a valid option. He can’t do it without thinking about Bill, without risking going into the Mindscape, even with the metal plate in place; and that’s the last thing he wants crossing his mind right now.

He _doesn’t_ remember them. That’s the worst thing about it. He’ll wake up with a scream of horror lodged in his throat and his hands fisted so tightly into the sheets that it hurts his fingers, and have absolutely _no_ recollection of what had gotten him this worked up in the first place no matter how hard he tries recalling it. All he ever remembers upon waking is the overpowering, all-consuming _terror_  that thunders through his veins, that claws its way out of his chest.  

He frowns when Stan awkwardly shoves a dream catcher charm at him.

“Just… give it a shot,” Stan mutters, exiting quickly.

It doesn’t work (of course).

But Ford keeps it hung above his bed anyway.


	8. Amelioration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of Stanford and Bill's history, and more of the twins slowly starting to patch things up. The Stans' relationship in this fic continues to remain platonic.
> 
> 20-, 300-, and 100- drabble formats. It's kind of all over the place at this point. Whatever works.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst, crack. Mentions of past relationships (Starla, Billford), dealing/coping with failed relationships, masturbation. Warnings for mentions of past/attempted abortion/caesarean, smoking while pregnant, drinking while pregnant. Obviously I do not condone any of these things, especially the last two (seriously, stay safe) and you should only do this if you are one million percent sure that you're carrying the spawn of a souless dorito.
> 
> I also do not condone any form of manipulative or abusive relationships in any way.
> 
> Lots of references to past chapters, specifically Chapters 2 and 3.

_“Do you love me?”_

_Ford smiles. “With mind and body. From now until the end of time.”_

_Bill “kisses” him._

x x x

He _still_ thinks about Bill.

Logic chides him: Of course you do. You _have_ to. There’s a constant, unavoidable memento of him the size of a basketball and the weight of a small whale tethered to your midsection. It’s _there_ and you can’t help _feeling_ it, even if you don’t _want_ to, especially when It starts _moving,_ and all that triggers are memories of Bill; Memories _with_ Bill, Bill’s voice, Bill’s laugh, Bill’s jokes, Bill’s touch, _Bill’s_ –    

He can still feel the warmth tenderly brushing over his skin – the soft pulse of affection Bill so often gave him. If he closes his eyes, he can almost see the fond, mischievous, endearing way he’d smiled at Stanford. And ultimately, he’ll start recalling the many long nights they’d spent together simply talking, discussing, bantering, arguing, laughing –

– Bill teasing him from within his own skin and inside his own head, as Ford gives himself up, lets Bill _own_ him, because he loves (loved) Bill. He doesn’t know when the reverence had crossed the line over into the dangerous territory of love, but he loves (loved) Bill; He trusts (trusted) him, and Bill makes (made) him happy, makes (made) him feel wanted, needed, _loved_ –

(he muffles his grunt into a clenched fist as he jerks and spills into his other hand)

– and he’s back in his room, alone. No amused giggling beside and/or inside him. No familiar afterglow where Bill slowly allows Ford to regain his senses, fading from control until it’s all completely Ford again.

He spends an obscene amount of time washing his hands almost methodically, before rendering the previous action completely moot by drying off his hands on the fabric of his pants. 

He hates having to relive the realization that none of it had meant _anything._

x x x

It was Stan who’d came up with it. Not Bill.

So he doesn’t ask Stan to stop calling him ‘Sixer’.

x x x

_“I’m only doing this because I love you.”_

It’d started out as a joke. Repeated usage turned it into an odd, somewhat-comforting running gag between them.  

“But you _don’t_ love.” They’re galaxy-gazing, lying on their backs on a starfield of indeterminate origin. Bill idly swipes a finger through the air before them and the scenery before them changes, like slides on a projector.   “You said it yourself – love is stupid. Not that I’m complaining. I just… want to know, I guess. Did you change your mind?”

Bill doesn’t skip a beat. “Maaaaaybe,” he drawls, swiping again nonchalantly.

Ford beams at this concession.

“I’m… flattered, to be honest.” He twiddles his fingers. “I mean, I know it’s probably unnecessary for you, what with being a god and all that. So… _thank you_ , Bill. It really means a lot that you’re trying. …With us.”

Bill snorts. “Only for you, IQ.” He sends a lazy, sideways pulse at Ford without looking over, and Ford grins stupidly wide. “Only for you.”

Stanley says it (over breakfast, in the exact same tone of voice, as they’re half-joking, half-seriously discussing about how they're going to deliver the Thing). 

“NO, YOU _DON’T!”_

Ford slaps his hands over his mouth, shocked by his own unexpected outburst.

Stanley’s scrambled eggs slip off the half-raised fork to his mouth, and splat anti-climatically back against his plate.

“Shit… _Ford.”_ Stanley’s torn. Ford belatedly realizes his twin has mistakenly assumed the angry remark had been meant for _him._ “I was just joking, Poindexter, I didn’t mean to – ”

“No, it’s not you,” Ford cuts in, quickly. He’s starting to panic. He ignores Stanley’s look of relieved, but hurt confusion as he hurriedly slips off his stool and away from the kitchen. “It’s not you, Stan, it’s – it was… I-I need to go.”

x x x

Ford hadn’t exactly spelt out their relationship.

It’s obvious, however, that Bill had been much more than just a muse. 

x x x

When Ford emerges from his room hours later, they both pretend not to notice his red-rimmed eyes. Stanley silently prepares them dinner (he’s surprisingly decent at cooking, more than Ford can say for himself, anyway), and Ford accepts the pro-offered food as means of thanks and an apology.

For a while there’s nothing but the soft clink of cutlery against the ceramic. Stan chews his food a little more politely than usual. Ford attempts to memorize the newspaper.

They finish their meals. Stan takes his plate from him (Ford gives a small nod in silent gratitude) and begins washing up.

“…you’d sounded like him.” Ford notes the pause of the dishwashing, before it resumes, quietly. He takes this as his cue to go on. “It’s probably psychological, now that I think about it – the way he called me ‘Sixer’, the way he… mimicked things _you_ would have said, things you would have _done._ Probably just a part of his ploy to… get me to let my guard down, invoke some kind of familial comfort. “ He shuffles in his seat. “It’d worked. Too well, perhaps. But it wasn’t… that _wasn’t_ directed at you. Honest.”

Stan makes a non-committal noise.

Ford pillows his head in his arms. “It’s stupid, isn’t it,” he mumbles into the table. “He doesn’t – it’s obvious he’s never, that he _didn’t…_ and logically I _know_ this, I _know_ it was…” Fuck, his eyes are hot, pressure welling up behind his eyeballs as he fumbles for words. “ _So why does it still…?!_ ”

“Hurt like a bitch, even though it’s over?” Stanley shuts off the water and begins drying off the plates. “Because love doesn’t listen to reason. And _your_ love was real.”

He does Ford the courtesy of not turning around as his brother breaks down once more.

x x x

_“D’you… wanna talk?” Stan sticks his hands in his pockets. “Don’t gotta, of course.”_

_“...yeah.” Ford licks his lips. “Sure.”_

x x x

They end up drinking on the roof of the house that night. (“Because _fuck Bill_ , and fuck _This,”_ Stanford had growled at Stanley’s pointed glance at his stomach, before taking a hefty swig of alcohol. “It’s not human, it’s not mine, and I really don’t fucking care anymore, to be honest.”)      

“Who was it? For you,” he asks, bluntly, once they’re both drunk enough to actually talk to each other, but not drunk enough to not remember the night when they wake up the next morning.

Stan takes a long drag of his cheap cigarette and an equally long swig of (his equally cheap) beer before responding.

“Carla.”

“…McCorkle?” Ford vaguely recalls the curvy brunette he’d seen milling around Stan during their school years. “Weren’t you two still together when… ” he pauses enough for Stan to understand that he’s talking about The Fight, “after… you know?”

“Bitch returned all my flowers.” But the way he says the expletive, Ford can tell Stan’s never once thought of her that way. Stan ignores his actual question as he downs another gulp. “Cried like a baby for months.”

“How long before you…?”

“’Stopped hurting’?” Stan snorts. “You think it _did?”_

He flinches belatedly, at Ford’s crestfallen expression.

“Sorry. Supposed to be makin’ this better, not worse.” Stan barks a laugh. “It… sucks. Really, really _sucks._ But it doesn’t suck as bad after a while. It’s cliché, but give it time. You just… gotta grin and bear it until the pain becomes tolerable.”    

“I don’t want it to be tolerable.” His voice is small. “I want it to end.”

“Yeah, well… tough.” Stan crushes the empty can in his fist, and chucks it at his car. The Stanmobile starts blaring. “The heart does what it wants, Sixer. There’s no arguing with that thing.”

x x x

His body begins rejecting whatever alcohol hasn’t been absorbed by midnight.

Stan sighs jadedly and helps Ford back to bed.

x x x

_“I’m not gonna say ‘I told you so’, but… I told you so.”_

_“Go to hell, Stan.”_

_“Love you too.”_

x x x

“Okay, but seriously. How is it going to come out?”

They’re back on this same conversation, except there’s no more joking around. It’s something they need to cover one way or another, regardless of how desperately Ford does _not_ want to bring it up, and how badly Stan wants to _not_ have anything to do with it when It happens.

“Well, for one thing,” Ford pokes grouchily at his hashbrowns, “I am not going to ‘shit it out’, as you so eloquently put it.”

“…oh my fucking god.” Stan drops his fork, slack-jawed. “It’s going to come out of your…?!”

Ford doesn’t understand the aghast expression on his brother’s face until the other makes a crude, jerking motion with his hand and –

“Oh my _god._ Stan, NO.” He buries his head in his hands. He _really_ wishes they didn’t need to have this conversation. “IT’S NOT GOING TO COME OUT OF MY… MY _PENIS,_ FOR GOD’S SAKE.”

“ _Thank fucking god._ ” Stan’s still pale. He doesn’t pick up his fork. “Because… yeaaaaah. I don’t really need to explain why I don’t want to deal with that anymore than the situation of it coming out of your ass.”

“It’s _not_ going to come out of my – ” Ford throws his hands up. “He gave me a – he changed my – look, it’s just going to come out of another orifice. _Alright?”_

Stan wrinkles his brow. “…what’s ‘orifice’ mean?”

Ford claws a hand down his face.

“‘Hole’, Stan. It means ‘hole’.”

He watches as Stan’s expression flows from childlike confusion, to mindless acceptance, and then as it violently backpedals into an expression Ford can only term as Stan’s “What The Fuck Face”, as the gravity of his words sink in.

“You have _TWO assholes?!”_

Ford shoves himself back from the table and storms out.

x x x

_“You have a – ” Stan’s guffawing, despite the death glare Ford levels him. “Holy shit. Hoooooly shit!”_

_“GO TO HELL!”_

x x x

“Okay but _seriously,”_ Stan says again once he’s (fucking finally) calmed himself, “I uh… I don’t exactly want to be in the front row for the show when the movie _starts,_ if you get my drift.”

“Then don’t.” Ford has refused to look up from where he’s buried himself into a blanket cocoon of shame and humiliation on his bed. (He can _hear_ Stan’s shoulders shaking with laughter from where the other is leaning against the door, goddamn him.) “I don’t even know how it’s going to work, myself, but he put the damn thing there for a _reason,_ and if my previous attempts at a premature caesarean haven’t worked, I think it’s safe to assume that that’s the only way it’s going to… exit. Just… make sure you burn my remains if I die, or something.”

“Jesus.” Stan coughs loudly and falsely in a terrible attempt to disguise another chuckle. Ford scowls at him and huddles deeper into his protective fleece shell. “Oh christ. This shouldn’t be funny. …oh, _shit!_ Is it permanent?!”

“ _I don’t fucking know!_ ” Ford screeches. He’d honestly never bothered to question what Bill had done for _and_ to him before, and now he’s beginning to question _why_ he didn’t question _that_ before, “I didn’t exactly read the fine print when I signed my life over to the goddamn corn chip I was infatuated with!”

The gravity of his own words hit _him._

“I… never questioned it,” he repeats. He says the words out loud, more for himself than to Stanley. The other straightens warily, sensing the mood shift. “I never once… I trusted him _that_ blindly. I actually… Oh my god.”

He curls in on himself and ignores Stanley as his twin calls his name.

But Stanley isn’t letting him go this easy this time.

x x x

“Hey.” Stan stops shy of the bed. He squats down beside it, and pokes insistently at him until Stanford glares up at him, miserably. “You know better now. …at least, I _hope_ to god that you do... Keep moving forward, alright? I’m not… you’re not alone, Pointdexter. Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it. You… and me.”

Stanford inhales sharply and shuts his eyes as Bill flashes through his mind again.

He knows Stanley can’t possibly have _known_ that he’d just paraphrased Bill word for word, but…

He’s shaking, but Ford manages to keep his voice steady as he nods.

“Together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's left kudos and comments on this so far! it's really nice and encouraging to know there're people out there who actually like reading this, as messed up as it is. I don't romanticize abusive relationships at all - writing this fic was really more a kind of coping mechanism and outlet for me more than a glorifying of said relationship issues. I apologize still if it offends anyone, with the increasing number of taboo and sensitive subjects I'll be covering. 
> 
> Next up: shit hitting the fan.


	9. Watermelon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford moves into the bunker. Things don't go according to plan. Stan grows desperate.
> 
> 20-, 100-, 300- formats as usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided that the Stanley/Stanford will remain platonic. Changing the relationship to anything otherwise only unnecessarily complicates the storyline.
> 
> Somewhat cracky, but turns serious pretty quick. Slight body horror (fetal movement, abdominal pain) with regards to the "pregnancy". Slight body dysmorphia. Warnings for mentions of guns, gun use, some physical violence in this chapter. Also, Fiddleford makes an appearance. You didn't think he was just going to disappear, did you?
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone who've left comments! (Especially the long ones! Holy crap. You guys bring me such joy.) Onward, Aoshima!

_Week 31 Day 4_

_Start 2020_  
_End 2040_  
_Kick Count: 15_

_Shortness of breath and increased fatigue as host enters the final trimester, but host vitals remain stable otherwise. No change with regards to the recurring insomnia._

_Subject’s movements now outright painful. Thankfully only active during certain hours of the day. Usually considered to be sign of a healthy fetus, however, increase in subject’s activity and the discomfort it brings may be correlated to the power Bill had invested / is investing into it. Had planned to move into bunker during Week 34, but may need to do so sooner._

 x x x

 “Are you _sure_ you don’t want to just stay home and rest?” Stanley asks him again, brows knitted in worry as Stanford has to stop once more to rest against a tree.

Ford leans heavily into the jagged bark, wincing as he crosses his arms over his distended stomach. His breath hitches sharply as another raking sensation scratches deep behind his belly button.

“Just -- need another minute,” he manages between clenched teeth.

“Oookay,” Stan says. He looks extremely nervous. “You sure you’re not… like, having it right now? Because that’s kind of what it looks like.”

Ford shakes his head hard, unable to speak for the moment. Stanley gets the message though, so he just fiddles aimlessly with the haversack slung over his shoulder, needlessly adjusting straps and checking zippers until Ford groans and straightens up.

“Not contractions.” One hand goes to his lower back, almost automatically now, rubbing hard at the persistent ache that’s settled there. Stanley awkwardly avoids looking at him, as they continue trudging through the woods. “Fetal movement. It’s normal – necessary, in fact – for all pregnancies. It indicates that the fetus is well. Granted, not all of them hurt with this intensity – most expecting parents even _welcome_ the sensations, actually – but seeing as I’m carrying the spawn of a demon I suppose I really shouldn’t be surprised that nothing about this process has been, or will be, remotely pleasant.”  

“Asshole demon daddy, asshole baby.” Stan nods. “Got it.”

They reach the designated area. It’s the first time he’s taken Stan here. Ford instructs Stanley to climb a tree and yank on one of its topmost branches. Stan’s jaw drops as the entire tree shudders into the ground, revealing the steps descending into the bunker.

“…Ladies first?” Stan tries.

Ford decks him before leading the way.

  x x x

_Week 32 Day 3_

_Start 2010_  
_End 2115_  
_Kick Count: 10_

_Urinating more frequently than usual, but nothing new otherwise._

   x x x

Ford roots through the weapons cabinet. He tosses one of his findings to Stan. It’s an unloaded semi-automatic pistol. It’s brand new – most likely purchased only recently, then.

“I assume you know how to load a gun,” Ford states, pushing over several boxes of ammunition.

Stan gives him a dirty look. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Ford looks perplexed. “You went to prison, did you not? I assumed the likelihood of you having handled guns would be higher in light of that knowledge.”

“Wow.” Stan starts digging through the ammo. “Thanks for insinuating that I’ve shot people before.”

It’s Ford’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “You know what ‘insinuate’ means?”

“Yeah, and I can spell your name: D-I-C-K.” Stan loads the gun angrily, checks it. All looks fine and he holsters it irritably. “I haven’t _killed_ anyone.”

“Unfortunate. It’s kind of what I need you for.” Stan is suddenly acutely aware of how potentially messy things can get in here, as Stanford clumsily loads his own pistol. “Let’s test this, shall we?”

Stanford aims the pistol point-blank at his own stomach and fires.

Stanley _screams._

“Oh, good, it works,” Stanford says, and holsters the pistol.

“ _STANFORD WHAT THE FUCK_ ,” Stanley screeches, once he’s recovered the use of his voice, “JESUS CHRIST! COULD YOU _NOT_ –?!”

“What?” Stanford’s already loading a second pistol. Stanley flinches as Ford takes aim at himself again and pulls the trigger. There’s another loud bang, another brief flash of cobalt blue light, another soft clink and tinkle of metal against stone as the shell and flattened bullet both clatter harmlessly to the floor. “I’ve told you. Can’t come to harm while – ”

“That doesn’t mean it’s okay to start _shooting at yourself!_ ” Stan clutches at his chest. “What is _wrong_ with you?!”

Ford chuckles. “A lot.” 

 x x x

_Week 33 Day 1_

_Start 1950_  
_End 2020_  
_Kick Count: 12_

_Host has become increasingly agitated and irritable. Subject’s movements continue to hurt._

_Sigil manifested suddenly on host body this morning, in the form of scar tissue reminiscent to stretch marks. Had first appeared only briefly in the Dreamscape when host had accepted Bill’s aid before disappearing._

_[drawing]_

_This is as faithful a reproduction of the sigil I can manage. (Note: Do not accidentally flash brother in future.) Need to study unidentified symbols still; better now that there’s a reference._

_It’s too dangerous to keep waiting. I move in tomorrow._

  x x x

They make it through the security room with but a few scrapes and bruises. He’d usually sent Fiddleford in his stead to deal with things, so he _might_ have forgotten the exact symbols they’d set up to disable the system. His indestructible stomach comes in handy, here – Ford ends up just wedging the bulk of his middle into the exit, holding it open long enough for them to slip through.

 _“Ohhh,”_ Ford mumbles, circling the symbols with invisible ink, _“Not_ the question-mark one, but the X-one. …the other, _other_ X-one.”

“Going to die,” Stan moans from where he’s crumpled to the floor. He wheezes theatrically. “Why the hell would you use _invisible_ ink?! That’s information that _needs_ to be handy at an immediate glance!”

“Eh, it’s not like I’m leaving this place anytime soon, doesn’t matter.” Ford shuts off the portable black light and pockets the journal. (“ _I_ need to leave!” Stan whines. “And re-enter, _preferably whole_ , so I can check on your sorry ass!”) “Come along now, we’re not done yet.”

Ford shoves them both into the cramped metal closet that serves as the decontamination chamber prior to entering the experiment lair. (“ _Can’t we go one at a time?!_ ”) The lair looks just as he’d left it (a complete mess), but the cryogenic holding tubes are still intact, so at least that’s one more worry off his list.

“What’s in that one?” Stan points at a tube. The glass is completely frosted over, obscuring whatever is inside.

“Not sure. Probably the Shape Shifter.” (Stan balks at the name.) “Fiddleford was the one who contained it. Don’t get too close to that thing, Stan – we froze it for a reason.”

“Great. _Fantastic._ Demon ass babies _and_ transforming monsters.” Stan retrieves a spray can from the haversack. “No wonder Fiddlesticks quit.”

  x x x

_Week 33 Day 2_

_Start 2015_  
_End 2045_  
_Kick Count: 10_

_Host vitals normal. Subject movements normal._

_War starts now._

  x x x

Between the two of them they cover the main experiment lair relatively quickly, and soon every possible inch of cave wall is covered with Bill-proof symbols.

Stanley has to physically force Ford to sit and rest once the other begins huffing for breath in-between actions.

“I’ve drawn these things a hundred times by now, Poindexter,” he growls at Ford’s protests, “I think I’ve got it.”

“Not a single line out of place,” Ford pleads, begs. Something in his voice makes Stanley hesitate, and he looks over his brother as the man hunches over himself, one hand braced against his knee and the other pressed into his side. He’d radiated arrogant confidence the entire day, but now… Stanford looks scared. _Defenseless,_ and Stan sees now that the self-assurance was a ruse, because his brother looks terrified. “Please, Stan, _please…_ if, if something goes _wrong_ – ”

“ – then I’ll be here to deal with it,” Stan finishes. He kneels next to Stanford (he’s trembling slightly, now), lightly punches his shoulder in an attempt to lighten the mood. “I’ve got your back, Sixer. We’re in this together. It’s gonna be okay.” He bites his lip. “You… you can trust me on this. We’ll fight that bastard together, as gross as it’s gotta be, and we’re gonna to take that son of a bitch down.”

Stanford takes a while to reply, so Stan busies himself again, working in silence.

“…I trust you, Stan.” The admission is quiet, shaky. “It’s why I called you to begin with. You’re… you’re the only person I can trust to do this.”

Stan snorts. “Drawing scribbles isn’t exactly rocket science, Ford – ”

“ – _ending me,_ ” Ford clarifies. “You _promised._ Stan, please...”     

“…only if it comes down to it,” Stan grunts.    

He wonders when they’d both become such good liars.

 x x x

They go through the trap mechanisms, the secret passageways, the code words one last time before Stanley leaves for the night. Stanley’s supposed to stay with him in the bunker – Ford is _sure_ something will happen the instant he’s left alone – but there’re a few last-minute preparations that need to be made, that he needs Stanley to take care of.

“Get some rest.” Stan hoists the haversack over his shoulder, rechecks that his gun is secure. “And try not to shoot at me when I return.”

Ford nods, huddled in his sleeping bag.

He passes out the instant Stanley leaves.

 x x x

Week 34 comes and goes without fanfare.

So do Weeks 35, and 36.

Stanford is constantly on edge. Perhaps it’s due to being cooped up underground for so long without exposure to natural resources, or the lack of human interaction (aside from his brother), but the cumulative effects from both his deteriorating physical, mental, and emotional states, as well as his environment, are starting to wear him thin.

Week 38, the last week of the last set of thirty days, is when he expects something to happen. It’s now Week 37. His appetite continues to decrease, as does the already scant amount of sleep he manages. His body seems to defy the logic of his well-being, as the Thing continues to grow, filling out regardless of his lack of sufficient intake. Stanford wraps himself in blankets, despite the stifling stickiness of the underground cavern, unable to stand the sight of himself.

Week 38 arrives. Week 38 passes.

Week 39.

Week 40.

His demeanor shatters.

“What if it keeps growing?” He paces feverishly around the lair, blankets dragging as he moves. Stanley yells in alarm as Ford trips, but Ford stumbles, rights himself and keeps marching, keeps muttering rapid-fire under his breath as he pulls up the flipboard that’s already covered with messy equations and repetitions of various sigils, and adds more scribbles on top of the existing chaos. “Human pregnancies can last up to 42 weeks. A bit more, perhaps, for first babies. But this – it’s always followed standard time frames. It’s _always_ been exactly thirty days. _Exactly_ seven days. _Exactly_ twenty-four hours.”

“ _Ford!_ ”

“He’s messing with me.” Ford finishes writing. Then flings the entire board away from him in a fit of rage. It smashes to the ground as he tears at his hair. “ _He’s fucking PLAYING with me!!_ ”

 x x x

He can’t simply stand by and do nothing.

“I’ll be right back,” he swears. Ford doesn’t hear him.  

Stan leaves.

 x x x

It’s well past midnight and Stan finds he has no fucks to give.

He hammers loudly on the door of Fiddleford H. McGucket’s house.

“Fiddlesticks!” he yells, after a grace period of two seconds. “I know you live here! …At least, I think you do, if you haven’t relocated yet! Get down here and talk to me like a real man!”

Silence.

Stan pulls out the address book he’s filched from Ford’s study again and scowls down at it. Maybe he’d gotten the wrong house after all –

The door creaks open. A haggard, unshaven face appears between the crack. “Sir, it’s late, and we’ve only _jus’_ put t’baby ta bed. Could you…”

The man’s eyes widen as he takes in Stan’s appearance.

“Yeah, it’s me, your old college buddy, Stanford Pines,” Stanley growls. In between needing to run errands for Ford while he was holed up in the bunker, and needing to interact with the townsfolk for supplies, Stanley’s come up with the perfect disguise for explaining his unannounced presence – his own brother. His mullet’s been cut and the edges trimmed off (and if he’s honest, he kind of misses it), leaving a shaggy mop of brown hair similar to Ford’s own hairstyle, that ends just above his eyebrows. Ford’s old clothes are a little tight on his thick frame, but they still fit. He pushes up the false glasses on his nose out of nervous habit and does his best imitation of a pompous ass.

“Listen, Fiddles, I know we got off on the wrong foot and everything, but I really could use your help for – ”

“I’m sorry,” Fiddleford interjects. Stanley, a liar through and through, knows a lie when he sees one, so he’s shocked when the other gives him an honest frown.

“Do I know you?”

 x x x 

He thinks at first that maybe the other man has recognized he _isn’t_ his brother, and Stan’s heart skips a beat.

“Stanford Pines,” Stan tries again, impatiently. Every minute he’s gone is another minute Ford is lost to his impending insanity. He shifts his weight and tries to recall everything Ford had shared with him about the man. “Backupsmore? Roomed together?”

“…I think you’re mistaken,” Fiddleford says, slowly. He’s beginning to look irritated. “I graduated from Backsupmore, yes, but… I _didn’t_ have a roommate. I don’t know who you are, or how in tarnation you figured _that_ bit of information, but I don’t think I’m who you’re looking for.” He starts to close the door. “Good night, mister.”

“N-No, _wait…!”_

Stanley jams his foot in the door.

Fiddleford’s eyebrows draw down to a dangerous level and his sleepy gaze sharpens, but Stan presses on, “Come on, we worked together! It’s why you moved to Gravity Falls! Look, see, here – ”

Stanley digs through his coat pocket and retrieves a worn, faded photograph of his brother and Fiddleford, grinning together in front of the cabin. Written in Ford’s script across the bottom is “ _June 18, 1981. Ford and Ford. For(d) science!_ ”

He shows this to Fiddleford, whose frown grows more pronounced. “Please, I need your help, just this _once._ You can keep pretending you don’t know me after we – ”

“Stanford Pines,” the other murmurs. His eyes have shut. He shakes his head, brings his fingers to his temple. “Stanford Pines. _Stanford…”_

And then, just as suddenly, his eyes fly open. A look of abject _terror_ crosses his face.

Fiddleford slams the door on him.

And on his foot.

“God _damn_ it, Ford!” Stan shouts, hopping pitifully on his uninjured foot. “What the _hell_ did you do to this poor bastard?!”

 x x x

_Fiddleford has… something that looks like a gun with a light bulb aimed at him, when Stanley manages to break into the house._

“Leave.” _Fiddleford is shaking, but his grip on the gun doesn’t waver as he levels it at Stan’s head. “Before I do something I_ won’t _regret.”_

_Stan knocks it out of his hands before Fiddleford has finished speaking. He kicks out Fiddleford’s knees, shoves him to the floor and pins his arms behind him._

_“Sorry, pal, but_ this _is a real gun.” Fiddleford goes still as Stan presses something cool between his shoulder blades. “Can we talk?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stanley doesn't hurt him, don't worry, but man... Don't threaten a guy with a real gun using a fake gun. That just never ends well.


	10. Conmen Con Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford agrees to help Stanley, and Stanford by extension.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter include: gun use, mild gore, mild body horror, violence. More towards the end. 
> 
> Mrs McG makes a brief appearance in the first drabble, but that's it.
> 
> Mostly 300-s in this chapter, but it has 100-s and 20-s as well.

It’s taking him longer than usual to put Tate to sleep.

She sighs as she hoists herself out of bed. _He’s probably lost himself on the way back again…_

“Fidd?” she yawns, rubbing at an eye. There’s muffled, rapid mumbling, and something clatters across the floor as she approaches the living room. “Is everythin’ alrig… who is that?”

 _“Oh!_ H-hi, honey!” Fiddleford’s skittishness seems to be in overdrive tonight. The figure he’s with has an equally wide grin on his face. “Nothin’ to worry about. Friend jus’ dropped by for a cuppa tea, s’all!”

There isn’t any tea on the table. She squints at him.

“…at _two in t’mornin’_?”

“Y-yeah!” Fiddleford laughs shrilly. “He, uh, he was, uh…”

“Impromptu stopover.” Fiddleford’s friend claps a meaty hand on the other with a booming laugh, almost bowling the lankier man over from the force of it. “Got places to be but just happened to pass by, figured I’d stop and say hello! Terribly sorry to bother you, ma’am. I’ll be outta your hair in a minute.”

The friend squeezes Fiddleford’s shoulder. Fiddleford’s eyes dart towards it, then back.

“As soon as we catch up. It won’t take long. _Won’t it, buddy?_ ”

“Yes! Of course not!” Fiddleford blurts. A high giggle escapes him. “I, uh, I actually… asked _him_ ta come over! Couple days ago! Just forgot about it until he showed up. Y-Y’know? Been fergettin’ things lately, an’ all that!”

She sighs and rubs her temples. Her husband has been up to very strange things lately, and she doesn’t feel like arguing about it right now. “…okay. Just… come on back t’bed. Whenever you’re done.”

“Night, darlin’. Love ya!” Fiddleford calls as she retreats to their bedroom.

Both men wait until the click of the latch sounds, before releasing their respective breaths.    

x x x

Fiddleford instantly backs away from him. Stan lets him.

“M’not gonna ask again,” Fiddleford growls, all prior nervousness gone. His fists are clenched and his knees are trembling. “ _Who t’hell are you?_ ”

Stan grits his teeth. “Already told ya. I’m Stanford Pines, your old – ”

“Bull!” Fiddleford spits. “Mighta fooled me jus’ now, what with my memory loss and the fight wit’ t’guns.” He points at Stan. “But I’m pretty darn sure that Stanford Pines has six fingers on each hand. Not _five.”_

Stan groans. He’d forseen this. Didn’t make it suck any less.

“Okay. Ya got me.” He raises his hands as confirmation and in surrender, and slowly, clearly re-holsters his pistol. The light bulb gun, however, he keeps behind him. If Fiddlesticks is the genius inventor that Stanford’s lauded him to be, it can’t be anything good. Much less while the man is still agitated. “I’m his twin. Dunno if he told ya ‘bout me.”

“Stanley Pines.” Fiddleford rubs the bridge of his nose in agitation. “He mentioned a brother before. It’s comin’ back to me, a little.” Then he mutters under his breath, “Gonna hafta set a higher voltage for t’next wipe to erase _this…”_

“Look, Fiddlesticks – ”

“It’s _Fiddleford.”_

“ – I need your help,” Stan blurts.

“Why should I?!” Fiddleford growls. “You _lied_ to me, _barged_ inta _my_ home, pulled a _weapon_ on me – !”

“Look, I’m _sorry_ about earlier, okay?!” He _needs_ Fiddleford to listen to him, to help him, and he’s going to have to convince the man to. “That was self-defense. I’m not gonna hurt ya. But _I need your help_. It’s my brother. He’s – ”

“If he’s told you about me, then you know why I left.” Fiddleford crosses his arms tightly, scowling. “I refuse to be – ”

“He’s going to die.”

x x x

Stanley is gone.

Ford keeps pacing. His back and joints scream at him in protest. He ignores them.

He needs to calm down. Being worked up isn’t going to help his situation.

He glances over at the mess of papers strewn over the table, the floor, at the journals that lay open across them. Scribbled letters and symbols decorate nearly every inch of every page.

He’d been too panicked trying to work out what was happening that he’d missed Stanley leaving the bunker. (Of course, once he’d realized _that,_ that had just set off another panic attack.) Once he’d calmed down somewhat, he’d come to the conclusion that Stanley must have left to try and gather additional clues regarding his situation, or to get some additional supplies or help. What kind of help Stanley would bring back, however, Ford wasn’t sure. It didn’t seem like anything would be able to help him anymore. 

 _No._ He makes a U-turn. He strides up to the table, slams his palms down. A few loose sheets scatter and flutter to the floor. His eyes dart through his notes, flitting through paragraphs, lingering on certain symbols. _There has to be something. Anything._ Something they haven’t pieced together. Something they haven’t discovered, that they haven’t realized. _There has to be._

He _needs_ there to be.   

Because to believe that there wasn’t a solution was to give up.

Because to give up was to let Bill win.

Stanford won’t allow it. He can’t. Maybe it’s his own selfish pride. Maybe it’s his fear of what Bill could unleash on the world. Maybe it’s his own shame, that he’d let himself get fooled this badly. But whatever it is, he will not let Bill have this. 

“Again,” he snaps. “From the top. Start over.”

Bill. Will. Not. Win.

 x x x

“I warned him.”

Fiddleford turns away from Stanley, tone bitter. “I told that darn fool to get rid of it. He didn’t. Now look where that’s gotten him.”

“He tried. He _couldn’t.”_ Stan folds his arms as well, expression equally dark. Fiddleford’s defenses crack at this revelation, eyes widening as Stanley continues, “The damn thing’s protected, even from him. Believe me when I say he’s tried getting rid of it, several times, in several ways. None of them worked.”

“’Protected’?” Fiddleford begins, then shakes his head rapidly and throws his hands up. “No, no, no, no, NO! I _refuse_ to be involved in the mess he’s created! Not again!”

“Fiddlesticks – ”

“ _It’s Fiddleford!_ ” the other hisses. “And no! I should have… should have questioned it, should have asked him what was really goin’ on, when I first started noticin’ things were gettin’ weird. But I didn’t push the matter, and it turns out he’s made a deal with the freakin’ devil himself!”

“Yeah, yeah. My genius brother’s a dumb ass, he’s got his head so far up his own rectum he’s nearly a human pretzel. I get it.” Fiddleford’s already taken the bait. It’s now a delicate matter of reeling him in without losing the catch. “I’m not askin’ ya to be directly involved. I just need some information. Information that apparently only you know.”

 _“No.”_ The other man’s stumbling away and Stan feels his heart tighten. He _can’t_ mess this up. Stanford needs him. Needs them. “I won’t – I don’t want to think about – God _damn_ it! I got out! _I WAS OUT!_ And you want to drag me back into – into – I had a life! I had a _family!”_ Fiddleford’s fist goes into the wall with a loud crack and Stan flinches. _“My life was NORMAL, damn it!!”_

x x x

“Again.”

He retraces his steps. Re-checks his calculations.

“Again.”

Pulls up references. Cross-references them.

“Again!”

But there’s nothing, nothing, nothing.

x x x

Stan weighs his three options.

One: He leaves Fiddleford alone, and tries figuring out another solution. 

Two: He uses brute-force. He doesn’t like it. He’s pretty sure the other won’t appreciate it, either. But it’s the simplest and fastest solution, and he’s already lost a lot of time. 

Three: He keeps trying to convince Fiddleford. But the man is a cornered animal at this point. Stan’s words might as well be falling on deaf ears.

Stan opens his mouth.

“You’re a coward, Fiddleford.”

He pushes past the other.

He puts his hand on the doorknob.

Turns it.

_“…w-wait.”_

Stan exhales.

x x x

They collaborate, going through Stan’s copied drawings in tense, begrudged silence that’s only occasionally broken by Fiddleford’s comments, or the scratching of graphite against paper as Fiddleford draws out ones that aren’t already on the pages.

 “That’s the last of ‘em.” Fiddleford completes the drawing with a weary sigh, once more rubbing at his temples. It’d taken a lot of coaxing and pleading, but Fiddleford had finally agreed to talk about the things he had seen during the brief moment he’d been accidentally sucked into the portal. Some symbols Stan recognizes, others are new and utterly foreign, never catalogued in Stanford’s journals.

“…Thanks.” Stan feels a slight twinge of guilt at having forced McGucket to recall his forgotten memories, but pushes it aside. He can deal with his guilt later.

He frowns as he scans through the symbols again. “Wait. There’s one missin’ – here – ”

He taps at a blank space on the sigil they’ve drawn out. There’s an obvious gap between two symbols – the total should have been fifteen.

Fiddleford groans, in obvious discomfort. “Right. There were fifteen, not fourteen… I’m sorry, Stanley, but that one’s jus’… not comin’ t’me right now.”

“This could be somethin’ really important,” Stan urges. “Couldja at least try?”

“I suppose I could,” Fiddleford mumbles. He glances at the memory gun on the table in front of them. “But I’ll need to recalibrate… do some re-calculations, hook this up to somethin’ that’ll let me draw out and actually replay those memories, instead of jus’ recallin’ them by myself – ”

“How long will that take?” Stan interrupts.

“I don’t know,” Fiddleford admits. “I’ll get to work right away, but I can’t say. Could be a couple hours or days. Give me some time.”

Stan swallows. “I’m not sure how much of that we’ve got left.”

x x x

Ford hears the bunker’s defense mechanisms whir to life.

He’s waiting with a loaded pistol at the ready when Stanley makes it through to the experiment lair.

 “Whoa. Just me.”

“You know the rules, Stan.” Ford pushes the pistol at him, face resolute. “Prove it.”

“I got an unwanted glimpse of your dick when you tried showin’ me that ugly sigil on your stomach the other day,” Stan deadpans.

Ford lip twitches. Stan’s never going to let that go, is he. “Password for the day.”

“’Fuck The Corn Chip, But Only Figuratively’.”

Ford shakes his head and lowers his gun.

x x x

Stan looks over the maelstrom of papers littering the ground behind him. “Didja get anything?”

Ford sighs and slumps.

“Fiddleford’s the only person whose information I haven’t incorporated. He never told me what he saw on the other side of the portal. And even that’s just hazarding a guess. It’s highly unlikely he’ll want anything to do with this, and it’s entirely possible that whatever he’s seen will have nothing to do with… w-why are you smiling like that?”

Stan smirks and pulls out a crumpled wad of papers from his back pocket. Ford cringes slightly at the state of them. “Way ahead of ya, bro. Guess who I saw tonight?”

“Stanley, you _didn’t…!”_

“Already did.” Stan puffs his chest out and unravels the wad. “Got whatever Fiddlesticks saw on t’other side of the portal. Think this’ll help?”

Ford snatches the papers from Stan, eyes flicking over the drawings. His heart speeds up as he analyzes them. This is… _incredible!_ It’s everything he’d only dared to hope for and more. 

“There’s a problem, though.” Ford looks up, immediately wary. “Fidds only managed to recall 14 out of 15 signs that he saw.” Stan taps a finger at the glaringly empty spot in the otherwise finalized sigil. “The last one’s gonna take a while, and… well… he’s not keen on coming over here t’help.”

“I’m not surprised,” Ford mutters, grimly. “Just get it from him when he’s ready, then, and we can – ”

“And leave you by yourself?” Stan scowls. “Nuh-uh.”

“You already _did._ _Just now._ ” 

Stan waves a hand. “Okay, but that aside… It was a big risk leavin’ ya alone tonight. I knew that. I’m not chancin’ it again.”

“Well, Fiddleford’s made it clear he’s not coming within a mile radius of me – ”

“Come with me,” Stan says.

x x x

Ford stares at Stan like he’s lost his mind.

“You and I both know why that notion’s impossible, Stanley.”

“Yeah, yeah – the Bill-proof sigils, might get possessed once you leave the sanctuary of them, yadda yadda.” Stan huffs and fixes his brother with a worried look. It’s rare for Stan to show his emotions so openly, and Ford falters a little. “Look, all I know is, you’ve been down here for the last month or two, preparin’ for the apocalypse, and nothing’s happened. I mean, at _all._ You said yourself it’s only supposed t’go up ta Week 38.”

“Stanley…”

“I can’t keep doing this, Sixer!” Stanley re-crosses his arms, shuffling in place uncomfortably. “Just… I can’t _do_ anything for you. All I’ve been able to do is watch. Now we’ve _finally_ got a lead on something that might help, and you won’t do anything to try to make it work?”

“ _It’s too risky,_ ” Ford bites out, gathering the blankets tighter about himself in response. “I nullified my first agreement with Bill by installing that metal plate in my head. I don’t know if that will stop the second deal from – ”

“Think of it this way,” Stan interrupts him, bristling. “You’ve already asked me to end ya if ya ever wind up possessed by that triangle asshole. What’s the worst that can happen? We have a shot at ending this thing for _good_ now, Ford. Or would you rather stay here, and keep letting It _grow?_ Those Bill-proof symbols we drew up might be the very thing that’s caused It to be overdue in the first place.”

Stan bites his lip. “We couldn’t prevent it. Maybe… t’only way to _actually_ be able to deal with it is to let it happen.”

It’s a compelling argument.

There’s a long silence.

“…fine.”

x x x

“Glaring at me isn’t going to speed up the process, trust me.”

Stanley growls. He’s worried about Ford, but going back with partial information would be as good as going back with nothing.

“Suit yourself.” Fiddleford flips down his goggles and turns on the soldering iron.

Stan looks away from the brightness.

“So,” Stan says, trying to fill the awkward silence. “About that bunker my brother’s at. That Shape Shifter thing. Heard you captured it?”

“Not by choice,” Fiddleford grumbles. “Got called here to build a large computer, ended up helping my paranormal-obsessed ‘friend’ raid alien spacecraft, trigger an apocalypse, and babysit an abomination that could mimic anything perfectly – dead or alive.”

Stan snorts. “’Babysit’?”

“Stanford found it as an egg and decided to raise it.” Fiddleford pulls over some wires and begins connecting them to both the memory gun and the latest invention on the workbench. “After witnessing his supposed parenting skills, god forbid I _ever_ let him interact with my son.”

“Hell does a Shape Shifter even _look_ like?” Stan tips his chair back onto two legs. “If they can be anything and everything…”

“You didn’t see it? Big, ugly thing, kind of hard to miss.”

“Yeah, but the tube it was in was all frosted over and junk. Couldn’t see shit. Ford advised against opening the tube for obvious reasons, so – ”

Fiddleford drops a wrench. Stan nearly falls off his chair at the loud clatter.

“Hey, _watch_ it – ”

“It was clear.” The panic in Fiddleford’s expression is spreading. It mirrors on Stan’s face as realization sets in, “Frost only forms when there’s been condensation. That means that tube was – had been opened. The glass was clear when I – ”

“Fuck,” Stanley snaps. He knocks over chairs as he and Fiddleford run for the door. _“Fuck!”_

 x x x

“Say it, Stanley!”

 _“God!”_ Stan throws his free hand in the air. “I swear to god and all that is and isn’t holy, I, Stan Pines, will _shoot you if your eyes turn yellow!_ There! Ya happy?”

He’s just one step away from leaving the safety of the bunker. Stan’s already on the grass, scowling, gun trained squarely on Ford’s forehead.

Ford sucks in his breath.

He steps out of the bunker, and onto the grass.

Both men flinch, bracing themselves for –

…nothing.

 Absolutely _nothing_ happens. 

They sigh collectively, relieved.

“Well, that was anti-climatic.” Stan barks a laugh and gives a lazy wave with his gun. He begins walking forward. “C’mon, IQ, let’s go. Time’s a-wastin’.”

Ford allows himself to chuckle. “Yeah, alright.”

He draws his own pistol in one smooth movement and fires a bullet straight into the back of Stan’s head.

Stanley half-turns back towards him, gasping. Thick, sticky blood pours from the exit wound beside his nose. One eye starts rolling up into his head. The other stares at Stanford in wide-eyed shock and betrayal.

The next two seconds are the longest, most unnerving seconds of Stanford’s life. He staggers back against a tree, panting, as Stanley’s visage _finally_ twists and warps, peeling off layer by layer and melting away to coalesce into the slimy, maggot-white gelatin substance that makes up the Shape Shifter’s true form.    

“Stanley never calls me ‘IQ’,” he gasps.

He raises his pistol again and fires two more shots into the Shifter’s head. It screams in agony, mandibles clicking desperately even as it tries to lash out at him. Green blood gurgles freely out of its mouth, its wounds.

His heart pounds so hard that his head actually hurts. Ford sinks back against the tree and looks on as the Shape Shifter dies.

x x x

 _“YOU LIED TO ME.”_ Its voice is as horrifying as its appearance. _“YOU…_ TRICKED _ME…!”_

“Oops.” Stanford says. Except Stanford hasn’t opened his mouth, hasn’t said – oh, no. No, no! NO! NO! _NO!!_

He feels himself get up, even as he screams at his limbs to stop moving.

“Might have slipped up, there. My bad!” His fingers snap of their own accord. He feels himself baring teeth. “But hey! I got you out of your prison, didn’t I?”

“YOU…! _YOU…_ ”

The Shape Shifter twitches and falls silent.

“Hello, Fordsy.” Bill laughs. “Didja miss me? Admit it. You’ve missed me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always thought it was a waste that Bill and the Shape Shifter never worked together in canon. Oh man, the chaos that would cause...
> 
> Regarding McGucket - according to SOTBE, McGucket starts to really lose his memory in-between Days 74 - Days 189. Stanford's around 20-22 weeks around the time Fiddleford quits the project, and is in Week 40 by the time Stanley finds him. So... about 140 days. Give or take, assuming Fiddleford immediately began developing the gun right after he quit. It should still be around Days 74 if he'd sat on creating it for a little bit. He only got kicked out around day 273, so I wrote him still having a house and living with his wife and son. 
> 
> I took liberties with McGucket's family situation in this one and had them all move over with him - I always kind of assumed he left his family behind in Palo Alto before moving to Gravity Falls. Regarding why Mrs McG doesn't recognize Stanley-posing-as-Stanford, assume McG either hasn't told them Stanford "betrayed" him, or that he's already wiped their minds as well. 
> 
> Also took liberties with the memory gun - I assumed McGucket had initially created the gun by itself to be able to permanently erase memories, with no way of recalling them. Here he invents the TV thing that allows for memories to be re-played once connected to the memory tube where the memories are stored. 
> 
> ...I thought about this too much.
> 
> Shit starts going down for realz in the next chapter. There will be explanations for how the Shifter and Bill even cooperated in the first place, as well as a few more on the exact natures of workings of Ford and Bill's deal(s).


	11. Contraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill and Ford finally meet face-to-face once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive, MASSIVE warning: While nothing explicitly sexual happens in this chapter, this particular update contains a LOT of non-con. It may be trigger-ish for those who have had abusive pasts, whether sexual, physical, emotional or psychological in nature. Or if you've just ended a relationship. There are mentions of suicidal inclinations, and a lot, a lot of manipulative behaviors in this update. Please be careful while reading. 
> 
> This chapter also has: brief gore mention (please either finish your food or put it off before reading this update), a lot of body horror regarding Ford's "pregnancy", and gun use. A lot of scene switching back and forth, but hopefully it's clear. Little bit of alcohol usage.
> 
> There are several show references in this, especially to the finale. Stay away if you haven't watched Weirdmageddon 3 & 4.
> 
> Once again I do not condone any form of abusive behaviors, and I apologize deeply for any offense or grievances caused. Please stay safe and speak with someone or try to get assistance if you are going through any of the above.

“Ohh, _Fordsy_. Look. At. You!” Bill croons, still speaking through him. He feels his lungs heave in a deep sigh, and his face contorts into an expression that’s supposed to resemble a nostalgic smile. “My, how you’ve _grown!”_

Ford is absolutely powerless as Bill slides his hands over his own body, in a sickening mockery of gentle affection. Bill flattens his palms against the jut of his hips, then trails just his fingertips, feather-soft, up against the grotesque swell of his abdomen. He splays all twelve of Stanford’s fingers across its apex and strokes it almost appreciatively.

Ford wants to throw up. He wants to wrench himself away from Bill. He wants to dash himself against a wall, fling himself off a building, throw himself before a speeding train – _anything_ to stop the undesired sensations caused by his own bodily contact.  

“‘ _Undesired’_?!” Bill barks a harsh laugh of delight. “You’re not fooling anyone, Stanford. I’m literally _in your head,_ right now! Your mouth says no, your heart says yes – that stuff. You _want_ this. You’ve _always_ wanted this. You’ve _missed_ it! _Craved_ it! _Hankered_ after it… for _so_ … _long_ …!”      

 _I’m not playing your games, Cipher._ He will not let Bill get to him. He’s suspected, anticipated for Bill to attempt to sway his confidence (“Fantasized, more like!”), to aim directly for where Ford is at his weakest. He’s not going to let Bill get the best of him. 

“Whatever helps you get through the next couple’a hours, buddy.” Bill looks up to the night sky above them and groans. “Aw, shucks. _Just_ missed the demon hour. Couple of minutes earlier and that would have been perfect! Oh, well. I’ll just do that reversal thing you humans think insults your religious beliefs.” Bill snaps his fingers. “Party at 0513 it is!” 

x 0342 x

They’re a right mess of nerves by the time they make it to the bunker.

Stan practically flies out of his car. They stumble upon an unidentifiable, decomposing stew of lumpy mucus and insect-like remains closer towards the exposed entrance to the bunker. It reeks.

Fiddleford dry-heaves and turns away quickly. Stan stares down at it, then the disclosed entrance, aghast, frantically trying to piece the puzzle.   

“This the Shape Shifter?” Stan demands loudly, not bothering to spare his partner a glance.

“Looks like it,” the other says, voice muffled through his hands, even though he’s pointedly looking in the opposite direction. “What’s left of it, anyway…”

Something glints deep within the carcass. Fiddleford makes a strangled noise as Stan squats, reaches unflinchingly into the slimy, lukewarm mess with his bare fingers, and pulls it out. Sticky strings loop away from it as he brings it up to eye-level, like melted parmesan (he’s not going to be able to eat pizza for a long time after this).

It’s a bullet shell. It looks like the same model used in the pistols he remembers Ford loading, and Stan’s frown grows deeper. Either Ford had fought off the Shape Shifter and won, or something else had done it for him. …or _as_ him.

“I shouldn’t have left.” He drops the shell back into the pile of gunk, wipes his hand off on his pants (“THAT IS _DISGUSTING_ ,” Fiddleford remarks, from behind him). “Ford said Bill would’ve… I shouldn’t have… damn it! I’m a fuckin’ _moron!_ ”

Fiddleford gives a full body shudder, then marches straight past Stan and towards the spiraling steps leading underground.

“And where are you goin’?” he yells.

“To gear up. Trust me. You’re gonna want to.” Fiddleford doesn’t even look back. “Because whatever killed that Shape Shifter? It’s _worse_.”

x 0349 x

“So what’s the plan-o, Stan-o?” Fiddleford asks (before directly following that up with “okay that was _bad_ ”), as they traipse down the stairs.

“Besides ending the son of a bitch that’s got my brother? Not much.” Stan frowns. “Hang on. Why are _you_ even comin’ down here? I told ya: You don’t need to get involved, and I meant it.”

“End times, buddy.” Fiddleford reaches the bottom and waits for Stanley to descend completely. “Nothing’s gonna matter anymore, so… what the heck. And if by some miracle, things pull through, and we survive? I got a memory gun wit’ m’name on it. Jus’ waitin’ fer me.”

Stanley touches down. He sniffs the air. Then sniffs at the other man. His nose wrinkles immediately. “When the hell did you even… Did you _just_ drink?!”  

“Like I said: End times. Man’s gotta get his courage somewhere. And I ain’t an idiot, Stanley,” he snaps, catching the other’s look of complete disbelief, “sure, I drank, but… barely. Not gonna get friggin’ _wasted_ when I… when I need to go _t’war_ , for cryin’ out loud.”

“Whatever, you lightweight.” He’s not going to admit it, but… he kind of likes Fiddleford better like this. At least he’s… useful? _More_ useful. And not constantly strung out. Stan slaps his hands together and rubs them. “So. Gearin’ up. Do you have anything that can fire customized bullets? Say, fifteen shots?”

“Fifteen’s a highly unrealistic number for a single round.” They move into the weapons room. Nothing’s been taken since his last check the day before, as far as Stan can tell. It’s a small relief. “But three’s mathematically feasible, I reckon. Why an’ what in tarnation d’ya need custom bullets for?”

“I’ll explain.” Ford’s knowledge is finally going to be tested. “But first… do ya _have_ it?”

x x x

“You can keep ignoring me, IQ, but you’ll either talk because you’ve got questions you’re just dying to know the answers to, or because you’ll reaaaally want me to shut up.” Bill sips elegantly from a wine glass. (Ford doesn’t flinch this time as the liquid goes into his eye. Not anymore.) “So. We can either pass the time civilly, and chat it up like old friends are _supposed_ to do… or I make this _extremely_ _tedious_. For you, of course. I’m enjoying this either way.”

They’re in the Mindscape. His… their… no, _Bill’s_ , current visual input and physical actions through Ford are projected all around them, like several security screens, as Bill-as-Ford leads them back towards the cabin. More specifically, towards where the portal remains lying dismantled in the basement.

Ford’s seated in an ornate, plush chair. Bright blue shackles of Bill’s magic engulf his wrists, his ankles, and more degradingly, around his neck. The chains aren’t very long, so his movement remains limited. 

Bill waves a hand at them. “Sorry about those. Symbolic slavery, and all that. You know how we demons love word play. Get it? Word, play? Because we make deals…? Never mind.” 

“You were cuter when I actually liked you,” Ford says. “Now you’re just really annoying.”

Bill gasps, eye widening. “It talks! Hallelujah!”

“Point proven.”

“I missed you too, lover-boy.” Bill “kisses” him. Ford turns his head aside as the pulse passes through him.

“…wow.” Bill actually does sound a little surprised, exaggerated exuberance fading for a brief instant. “You really do miss me. I’m kinda touched.”

“I do not miss you.” 

Bill waves a hand above them and the “screens” now display streams of words – Stanford’s live thoughts. Stanford’s disembodied voice shrieks back at them, echoing throughout the room.

“I beg to differ.”

x 0357 x

 “H-Hey,” Stan tries, as Fiddleford begins dragging assorted weapons from the cabinet, fiddling with some and haphazardly tossing others aside, “look, I know you ain’t comfortable with this whole… thing. I meant it when I said you don’t need to be directly involved. No, _really,”_ he insists, as the other begins… casually jamming… assorted bits of weaponry together, “all I need from ya is that stupid symbol. You can go back t’wipin’… your…”

He trails off.

 “What,” Stan utters, “the _hell_ is that.” 

Fiddleford cocks the gun-crossbow once. Three bolts reload.

“I’ve got a lot of repressed rage?” Fiddleford says.

x x x

 _“You_ used _me…!”_

 _“I actually_ loved _you, you goddamn son of a - !”_

 _“I want us to be together so_ badly _…”_

 _“I trusted you. I fucking –_ trusted _you!”_

 _“I miss you. I miss you so_ much _, why won’t you love me back why_ can’t you LOVE ME LIKE I LOVE _– ”_

_“It hurts. Why does it hurt so fucking much – ”_

_“ – I loved you.”_

_“I_ still _love you.”_

 _“You lied to me. You hurt me. I can’t trust you. I_ can’t _– !”_

The cacophony of voices are silenced as swiftly as they had begun.

“Point proven,” Bill echoes.

x x x

Two can play this game.

“You lied to the Shape Shifter.” Ford chooses to ignore the previous subject matter. The “screens” around them now show that Bill has reached the cabin. Ford watches bleakly, as the Bill-as-Ford onscreen picks up a stray branch, and begins purposefully breaking apart the lines of the Bill-proof sigils barring his entry into the house, nullifying them. “Why?”

“Pssh. I didn’t _lie!_ I just accidentally let one of my personal pet names for you slip through, when I was debriefing him about the situation.” Bill swirls his drink and sighs heavily. “Such a waste, that one. He was doing SO well! At least he finished what he was supposed to do.”

“Which was?” Ford prompts.

“Ooh, we’re conversing!” Bill claps his hands in glee. He settles himself next to Stanford’s head, and begins indolently combing his fingers through the other’s hair. Ford grits his teeth. “Making the deal with that simpleton was easy enough. Poor thing wanted out; I wanted in. Had him shadow you and your dumb brother for weeks, looking for an opening where he could successfully convince you to leave that horrible cave. _God_ , did that take forever! Gotta hand it to you, Ford, that metal plate was actually pretty impressive. And all those annoying _traps_!”

Onscreen Bill straightens, and steps smoothly through the doorway of the cabin. He passes through the broken sigils completely unharmed.

“You should thank me.” Bill laughs and rubs a hand over his stomach. Ford shuts his eyes, trying not to flinch. “Another day or two more in that cave, and this thing was going to have to come out the hard way. The _really_ messy, irreversibly _fatal_ way. Like, chestburster style. Have you seen that movie? …Who am I kidding? It’s about aliens! ‘course you have.”

x 0414 x

Fiddleford hands him the customized bullet-bolts. Stan takes them and runs over the sequences in his head again. He hates memory games; he’s never been very good at those. He’s praying that order will have nothing to do with it.

“This here’s only _fourteen_ bolts, Fiddles.”

“Uh, _yeah_ , because the friggin’ fifteenth symbol hasn’t been friggin’ found yet, _genius_.” Fiddleford waves a sluggish arm in his general direction. “I’m workin’ on it. Keep – keep yer panties on.”

“…” He shuts his mouth. “…can it be done in an hour?”

“Do I _look_ like a friggin’ factory?”

 Stan pauses.

“Actually… yes.”

x x x

It’s a while before Stanford speaks again.

“Was that how my predecessors died?”

“Naw. You were the first one who actually _wanted_ to seal the deal! The rest just… fell asleep and never woke up, after they refused my offer.” Bill scratches the spot above his bowtie, where his “chin” would be. “Never managed to figure out why all of them mysteriously died that way. Then again… all of the previous Chosen were terribly nosy individuals. Always with the questioning, and the doubting!”

“And you picked me because I trusted you completely.”

Bill snorts. “Oh, Sixer. You still think I _selected_ you! You practically fell into my _lap,_  I barely had to lift a finger.”

He’d been expecting something to sting, but this… _this_ hits hard. He _still_ has Bill on a pedestal, even when he’s trying not to.

Ford turns away again and ignores it as Bill simply continues _looking_ at him with that smug, mouthless _smirk_ of his.

Onscreen Bill has cleared his way to the basement. He destroys the sigils along the door way, at its entrance, and then the large, main sigil that’s been spray-painted right in the middle of the room. Again, he steps through it freely.

“Hey. Wanna see something cool?” Onscreen Bill asks them.

Mindscape Bill nods eagerly. Mindscape Ford’s guts twist in slow, anxious trepidation.

Onscreen Bill raises a hand. Said hand glows cobalt blue.

Onscreen Bill makes a broad, gathering gesture towards the rubble before him, clenches his fist, and then makes a single upward-striking motion, as though he’s swept up the pieces and tossed them like confetti. Ford watches with horror as the previously dismantled portal begins to re-assemble.   

“Sorry, can’t hear your incredulity over the sounds of my newfound and all-consuming power.” Bill chuckles. “And I’m just getting _started_.”

x 0435 x

“ _What_ ,” shrieks Fiddleford, _“the hell is_ THAT.”

Stanley gestures nervously at the newly-generated Fiddleford clone between them, which looks similarly alarmed. “Tadah! _Two_ yous!”

The photocopier whines, and spits out another clone of Fiddleford.

And another.

And another.

It keeps going, even after twelve clones and the original begin to hyperventilate simultaneously inside the increasingly-cramped room.

“Oh. Whoops. Uh. I _might_ have requested for ‘100’ copies, instead of ‘10’,” Stanley admits, sheepishly, as the Fiddlefords begin to press each other into the walls.

“ _I’m going to scream_ ,” all of them say.

“ _Please._   _Don’t._ I’m pretty sure Bill’s in the basement.”

x x x

“Wanna see another trick?”

Ford stares dully at him. They both know he has no choice in the matter.

“Get on with it, Bill.”

“You’re a terrible audience, Sixer,” Bill grumbles.

The triangular being floats up and away from Stanford’s head, coming in to hover directly before him. Bill stretches out his arms and legs.

Bill moves – and Stanford _chokes_ , gasping, as he feels – both in the Mindscape! And within his own! Physical! BODY!! – as _IT_ moves together _WITH_ Bill.

“Fun fact: that second deal you made? You didn’t just agree to carry my _vessel_.

“ _You agreed to carry me._ ”

x 0456 x

“I’m going after him.”

Stanley checks (for the umpteenth time) that his weapons are loaded and secure and that all fifteen customized bullet-bolts are in easy access. He pauses as he’s about to leave the room, his hand lingering against the door frame.

“Fiddlesticks…” he starts, sounding uncharacteristically unsure. “I…”

 Fiddleford (and by extension, all one hundred of his clones) doesn’t look up from the workbench, continuing instead to tinker with whatever it is he’s doing.

The silence lingers. What _can_ he say, really? He _isn’t_ sorry for doing all of what he’s needed to do thus far, pleasant or otherwise, to help find and retrieve that missing puzzle piece. He can’t be grateful yet, because he’s not even _sure_ if their plan will work. They’ve been going on absolutely _nothing_ but strong hunches and conjectural suggestions and hypothetical situations. There’s a lingering percentage of uncertainty in every single one of his available options, and his back ups sound sketchy at best. Hell, he’s not even sure if they’ll live to see the sun rise.

All Stanley knows is that he has to _try_. He has to give it his all, has to trust that his brother’s research is accurate; has to trust that the stranger in front of him is really the friend that Stanford said he was. He has to believe that they still have a fighting chance, even when it seems impossible.

There’s no use entering a battle with a spirit that’s already been defeated.

Stanley takes a breath.  

“Take care. And… _thanks._ For doing this. …For us.”

There isn’t any response. Stan makes to leave.

“…it’s Fiddleford.”

There’s no agitation to his tone this time. He looks back, and Fiddleford has the tiniest of smiles playing at the corners of his lips.

“Kick his ass, Stanley.”

X 0500 x

Destroyed sigils litter his path as he picks his way towards the basement.

Once he enters that doorway, there’s no going back. He knows this.

Stanley sets his jaw, and walks into the room.

Tall, bright blue flames immediately roar up behind him, sealing off his exit. He steadies his weapon, finger tense on the trigger.

He doesn’t need to look far to find Bill. He’s standing at the far end of the room, back to the portal, profile thrown into silhouette by the crackling, searing vortex of energy and lightning behind him.

Ford grins at him with yellowed eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I think shit's going to go down in the next chapter it just keeps getting postponed. WELL, THERE'S PRETTY MUCH NO WAY OUT FOR ME AT THIS POINT, SO. SHIT'S GOING DOWN IN THE NEXT CHAPTER. 
> 
> The Devil Hour - I took liberties with this, as I have with nearly 100% of this frickin' storyline. Some sites say it's 0300, or 0315, or lasts anywhere within the window period of 0300 to 0359. I pretty much said fuck it, made it 0513 in reverse just because I could and because it's not like Bill really needs his vessel to come out at a specific time, anyway, since he's mostly just fucking around with Ford at this point. God, I've missed writing this asshole. 
> 
> Thank you - SO much - again to all those who've left kudos (101 to date! Holy shit, you guys!!) and comments/support. I'm really glad you've enjoyed reading what you have so far, and I hope my updates are satisfying.


	12. Transition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan fights Bill off in order to try and get his brother's body back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual warnings follow: body horror, both related to the "pregnancy" and not, emotional/psychological manipulation, blood, violence, and gun use. There's intended self-harm in this chapter (not in the angsty, Linkin' Park way, though), so, trigger warning for that. Possibly offensive mentions of Christianity and religion, to be safe. Allusions to the finale, so, spoilers. It also gets, uh, descriptive, in certain areas. It's the final countdown. Just like they've always sung abou -- okay I'll stop.

_“So. Here’s what might happen.”_

_Ford dumps the box of documents on the table. It’s at least 3 feet high._

_Stan stares at it._

_“Couldja… I dunno, maybe narrow it down some more?”_

_“I suppose. Most of these are just precautionary measures.” Ford roots through the stack and pulls out a single roll of paper. “If we’re looking at situational probabilities, I’d say_ these _have a 75% chance of actually occurring.”_

_He unravels it. The paper hits the floor, unrolling past the table, through the doorway, before thumping rhythmically down the stairs._

_Stan slowly puts his face into his palm._

x x x

He doesn’t need to look any closer. It’s clear to see that this is _not_ his brother.

The change radiates from his entire being: from the composed, yet conceited way his shoulders are thrown back, to the sickening grin that threatens to split his face in half. Bill Cipher (because that’s who he’s really dealing with, now) stands tall, straight – _proud_.

He hadn’t really understood what Ford had meant before, when he said his eyes would turn yellow should he ever become possessed. Stan had assumed it would be a mere switch in eye color. The actual physical change is anything but subtle.  There’re no whites to Ford’s eyes now – just glowing amber. His pupils have turned snake-like: compressed into cold, thin, vertical slits.

Bill has discarded any unnecessary wrappings, leaving Ford’s body in nothing but a plain, over-sized work shirt, which drapes loosely and hangs un-tucked over his usual slacks. Ford was always huddled over himself, encasing himself in extra sheets and blankets, or pulling on additional layers… anything he could do, really, to hide himself and the inexorable changes which occurred to his body. This, however, combined with the backlight from the activated portal behind him, does nothing but accentuate the abhorrent bloat of his middle.

He knows without a doubt that Ford’s been taken against his will. He’d be completely helpless, yet still fully conscious while Bill puppets him, wearing his psyche down from the inside out. If Stan feels violated just _looking_ at his brother, he can only imagine what Ford must be going through.

 “Stanley Filbrick Pines! The _reject_!” Bill sounds jovial; pleased, even. Stan clenches his fists and grits his teeth. “You had me worried for a bit… I was almost afraid you wouldn’t show up!”

 “Wouldn’t miss this for the _world_ ,” he growls.

x x x

_Ford hands a kitchen knife to Stan._

_“Stab me in the gut,” he orders. “Nothing will happen to me, I assure you.”_

_Stan wavers, before squeezing his eyes shut and thrusting the blade straight at Ford’s stomach._

_A wall of iridescent blue light flares up at the knife’s point of contact, about half an inch from the surface of Ford’s skin. Stan gapes as he watches the blade start to curl against the force field._

_“Try again,” Ford says._

_Stan stabs a few more times, aiming for different areas, but the entire mass of it is shielded. The knife is more a piece of abstract sculpture than a kitchen utensil by the time he’s done with it._

_“Good.” Ford picks up another knife. “Now, observe.”_

_Without flinching, he digs the point of it straight into his wrist. Blood starts welling up. Stan yelps, but Ford merely continues speaking calmly, “As long as it’s not a direct threat to the Thing, or as long as it doesn’t put its Host in immediate danger, the sigil’s protective properties won’t be triggered. It’s how I managed to get that plate installed.”_

_Ford moves the blade directly over an artery this time. He plunges it down. The force field blazes up almost instantly, preventing it from making contact._

_“Now, here’s where it gets interesting.” Ford motions for Stan to pick up a second knife. He does so with apprehension. “All these have been singular attacks. In the case of multiple attacks, however, all energy is diverted to focus on protecting the Thing instead.”_

_Stan swings the knife towards Ford’s stomach at the same time Ford moves to slice his arm open. Only Ford’s blade pierces skin._

_He doesn’t want to think about how many times Ford has attempted this to obtain such reliable results._

x x x

“That’s… that’s impossible.” Ford shakes his head wildly. His hands come up to cover his mouth. “It was your magic that powered the sigil, not – It _can’t_ be!”

“Is that really such a difficult concept to grasp?” Bill laughs and snaps his fingers. The Thing stops mimicking his actions, as though disconnected. “Don’t you humans have something similar? The Holy Trinity or whatever? Where one guy can exist as three separate guys who also happen to be the same guy all at once? Kind of the same thing. You shook my hand. I transferred a portion of my… I don’t know, I don’t have a _soul_ , per se… but I transferred a part of myself into you. It took up residence in the vessel and it’s been there ever since.  All that’s left now is to re-merge myselves together via the ritual and – _voila_! Physical form!”

“All this time, it was _you_.” Ford’s digging his nails into his cheeks. He’s going to scream. He’s going to be _sick_. He’s horrified, _defiled_ , and he feels repulsively _filthy_. “All this time I thought I was just… I thought it was something we both shared. Then you told me I had nothing to do with it, and I assumed it was just something _you_ made, that _you_ needed. But now you’re telling me, that after all this time, _after everything I’ve been through_ , that what’s been _inside_ me was _really_ – ”

“What can I say, Fordsy? Oh, wait. I know! I guess I was… wait for it…” Bill spreads his arms apart in glee. “Too _attached_ to you! BOOM!”

 “You mentioned _none of this_ when we made the deal!” Ford hisses.

“There wasn’t any need to!” Bill leans in close. “Especially not after _you_  agreed you were _willing to do anything for me._ ”

x x x

_Stan finds a page of what looks like several modified pentagrams. Not a single letter mars any of them. The entirety of them seem solely composed of various symbols and drawings, arranged in circular fashions instead._

_“What’s all this?” he asks._

_“Sigils, for exorcism.” Ford cuts the gauze and resumes bandaging his arm. “Those are just very basic sigils, though, and each would need to be tailored to the spirit or entity that they’re meant to affect.”_

_Basic. Right. There’re at least eight symbols within each pentagram. His eyes have started swimming._

_“_ _Do you hafta start recitin’ Italian scripture or whatever when you draw these?”_

 _“Latin. And no.” Ford tacks on a few aluminum clips and begins putting away the first aid. “It would be presumptuous, not to mention foolish, to assign a single religion to the vast variety of otherworldly beings that roam amongst our world. No, what these have in common are_ shapes _. Signs, symbols…_ ciphers _. Mankind used simplified drawings and crude gestures to communicate, long before language came into being. It’s therefore rational – and expected – that a drawing would hold more sway and power than what written or spoken words could.”_

_“So this could work on Bill, too?”_

_“The sigil would need to be personalized to expel_ him, _and him_ alone _.” Ford takes a seat next to Stan again and Stan can’t help glancing over at his bandaged limb, stomach rolling at the thought of Ford casually inserting the blade under his skin and… “Bill’s been extremely careful. Obviously, he’s made sure not to show me what’s needed to counteract him. It might have been the sigil that appeared when we first made the deal, but that only happened in the Mindscape – I wasn’t able to record it. Still… it’s feasible.”_

_A chance. It’s better than nothing._

x x x

 _Here’s what I’ve come up with_ _._

Stan pulls up his pistol. He starts firing at Bill almost immediately.

_Since Bill’s energy will be prioritized to protect his vessel, I strongly suggest conserving your ammo and leaving It alone. For now._

Bill moves with an unnatural speed and grace that should have been impossible for him to pull off so effortlessly given his current physique. He spins, ducking, diving, dodging, evading the attacks almost tauntingly; nimbly avoiding the barrage of gunfire while simultaneously drawing closer towards Stanley. Slowly, but surely, Bill begins to cover the short distance between him and his aggressor.  

_I assume you’re familiar with fighting strategy. You’ve boxed, after all. And you’ve always been the better fighter out of the two of us. While this might not be a playing field you’re familiar with, and its opponents might not be anything similar to what you’ve faced before, the main objectives remain about the same._

The current assault is still light enough that Bill can afford to shield himself entirely and evenly without risking harm to the Vessel. The bullets are deflected easily, bright blue flares dispelling them upon contact. Stan keeps firing, undeterred. 

 _It’s true that I don’t know everything there is to know about Bill. But I prefer thinking of this as an opportunity, instead of a handicap._ This _gives us more options. More room for trial and error. More chances to find out_ what _and_ where _that_ chink _in his armor lies._

Bill is suddenly in right in front of him. Stan hurls himself to the side as the demon deals a blow that would have left half of him smeared across the dirt.

 _Watch. Observe._ Learn _. And once you find that opening –_

“The next one won’t miss!” Bill calls, cheerily.

– _go in for the kill._

x x x

He can’t believe what’s happening.

“All that time spent painstakingly going over every potential scenario.” Bill shakes his “head”. “You really thought this _knucklehead_ was gonna come through for ya?”

“I trust Stanley.” He doesn’t (“Ha! I _knew_ it!”) really have a choice. (“ – Oh. Boooo!”) Ford’s heart sinks as Stanley predictably runs out of ammo and pulls out – of all the lethal, automatic, _advanced_ weapons he had at his disposal – a rudimentary manual crossbow.

This is the _complete opposite_ of what they’d discussed.

Bill gleefully pops a handful of Mindscaped popcorn into his eye, “chewing” noisily. “This is _glorious_.”

x x x

He replays the same memory over, and over, and _over_ again until he spots it.

 _“Well, I’ll be,”_ he breathes.

x x x

“Don’t let me down, Fiddles,” Stanley growls.

He loads the first three bolts into the crossbow, takes aim, and fires.

Bill just tips his head to the side. The bolts go whizzing harmlessly past.

“Oh my GOD, that was a close one!” Bill gasps, hand over Ford’s heart. “Nearly took off my head there, did you see that?!”

Stan reloads the crossbow. He fires again.

Bill tilts in the opposite direction. Again, the bolts sail past. They thunk harmlessly into the wooden beams that make up the structure of the basement. 

Stanley keeps firing futilely, even as Bill saunters up to him. He’s backed almost against a wall by the time he fires the last and final shots. They too, miss their mark, despite the close proximity.

“Are you even _trying_ to kill me?” Bill rolls his eyes.

He conjures up a ball of blue flame in his palm with a simple flick of his wrist and lobs it straight towards Stan.

True to his word, Bill’s second shot is a direct hit. The crossbow flies out of his grip and clatters across the floor as Stan is knocked back from the force of the blow. His cry of pain is abruptly cut off as the back of his skull meets the wall with a resounding crack.

His vision’s just barely returning to him when he feels something fire-cold and icy-hot clench around his throat. Stanley chokes as he’s lifted up, up so that the only contact he has left with the ground are the very tips of his boots. He struggles, strangled by his own weight.

“Death by asphyxiation. How apt.”Bill laughs appreciatively. Above him, Stanley continues to claw at the ring of fire that’s slowly eating its way around his neck. “He’s always found you _suffocating_ , you know.”

x x x

Stanford watches helplessly as Stanley falls for the bait. 

“ _Don’t_ ,” Stanford says. “Bill, you can’t – ”

“Has he never told you?” Ford watches as Onscreen Ford-as-Bill widens his eyes. His slit pupils dilate with mock surprise. Stanley continues to trash, his face paling. “Guess you two weren’t as close as you thought. Me and ol’ Fordsy though, we go waaay back. Let me fill you in. Consider it a courtesy!”

“Stop.” His voice cracks. “Don’t _do_ this to him. He doesn’t – ”

“You’re a thorn in his flesh.”

Stanley’s movements falter. His eyes are round as they lock gazes.

“You’re a _leech_.” Bill’s voice has taken on the gruff baritone of Stanford’s usual timbre instead. Bill is _speaking as him_. “A good-for-nothing. A bumbling, worthless _byproduct_ who’s only made it this far in life by riding on my coattails since the day we exited our mother’s womb.”

“That’s not true.” He’s aware that Stanley can’t hear him. “There’ve been times that were… trying, yes, but that doesn’t mean that – !”

“You cost me my dream school,” Bill hisses. Venom drips from his words. “You ruined my entire _future_. I’ve given you the chance to do the first _worthwhile thing in your life_ , and you won’t. Even. _Listen_. You’re a _complete waste of oxygen_.”

Bill drops Stan when his eyes start rolling up into his head.

“I didn’t mean it!” Ford cries. The other hacks, raking in ragged breaths as he sputters, curled up on the floor. “I was angry. I was hurt! I said things I shouldn’t have, and – !”

Stanley’s rasping gasps grow louder, until it’s echoing off the walls from the force of it.

Stanley’s _laughing_. 

 “Sure.” Stan coughs. His grin is nearly manic. “And that’s why you’re still trying your damnedest to stop me from stoppin’ you.”

x x x

Stan raises a fist in front of him. It’s freshly bloodied.

A single drop of his blood falls. It splatters against the ground.

The room flares as fifteen symbols of light roar to life. They’re all burning a brilliant blue. Bill stares in shock as the fired bolts – the ones he had assumed had missed – light up one after the other, where they’re embedded deeply into the walls.

Stanley opens up his injured palm. An Eye of Providence has been carved jaggedly into it.

“NO!” Bill screams.

Stan leaps up and slams the bloody sigil straight into his brother’s forehead.

x x x

Bill shrieks.

He keeps going. It turns anti-climatic.

Eventually Bill runs out of breath to scream with.

“Wow.” He coughs and thumps his chest. “Geez, that really – that really hurt.”

Stan snatches his hand away. He staggers back from the other. The fifteen bolts – no, _fourteen_ , now that he counts them – are still burning blue.

“That’s… no,” Stan stammers. Bill straightens slowly, the bloody Eye of Providence imprinted squarely in the middle of his forehead. “That can’t be…!”

Stan recoils as the bloody impression manifests itself into a living, bleeding third eye which twitches open.

“The plot thickens,” Bill sneers.

x x x

“Oh god.” His feet slap across the floor. “Oh god, oh god. _Please_ let there be time still, oh god…!”

x x x

“No,” Stanford whispers, weakly.

They were so close. So frustratingly close…

Bill casually wipes off the blood running down his forehead. He experimentally blinks his third eye. There’s an audible squelch as it closes over the bulging eyeball and back, and he grins, pleased with the addition. “What was it my dear old Sixer told you again? ‘The sigil needs to be personalized’? 'Not a single line out of place'?”

“That’s impossible.” Stanley’s frozen to the spot with fear, as Bill advances towards him. “We – we got his memories back. We found the fifteenth symbol – !”

“Pfft! _Please_. That crazy old kook? You’re depending on the shaky, unstable _recollections_ of a mad scientist who’s tried to wipe his mind more times than he can remember! Did you really expect to get information that was _reliable_?” Bill laughs. It’s an unpleasant, sickening sound. “Sure, maybe fourteen of them work. And maybe he _thinks_ he’s got the fifteenth one. But the sigil is absolutely useless until all fifteen of them are _correctly drawn_ and accounted for. Nice try, though!”

Stanford’s stomach sinks. A part of him wants to believe that the inventor had deliberately sabotaged them – an easy target to assign blame to – but he _knows_ Fiddleford. Even if the man hates him now, they were friends before. It’s simply not in the other man’s nature to do so. It’s more likely that Fiddleford had recalled the symbol wrongly, since he’d been looking at it while in a panicked state… 

“Yeah,” Stan says. “I knew that.”

“…wait, what?” Bill says.

A loud crack pierces the air. This time, the _entire_ room lights up in a dazzling display. The glow emanates from all the bullets Stan had fired previously… as well as from the latest addition to it.

“Nice work, Fidds!” Stan yells.

x x x

Fiddleford is panting, clearly out of breath as he lowers his gun. The flames blocking his path might have prevented him from physically entering the room, but it isn’t an impenetrable wall.

“Stanley!” His wide grin matches the other’s. “You were right, the symbol _could_ be interpreted in another way! I went back an’ studied it until I was sure there couldn’t possibly be any other way to… oh good _lord_ , is that Stanford?”

Fiddleford crumples out of sight behind the flames in a dead faint. 

Bill whirls back towards Stanley, speechless.

Stan cracks his knuckles. “Now. Where were we?”

x x x

Bill is panicking.

Ford’s never seen Bill panic. In fact, he’s never seen Bill this _horrified_.

It’s liberating to witness.

x x x

 _“NO!”_ Bill flings an outstretched arm towards Stanley. The flames die nearly as soon as they are generated. “No, this can’t be…! What’s _happening_ to me?!”

His feet are rooted in place. They’re lead weights. He’s rendered absolutely powerless by the symbols that light up the entire room around them – on the floor, in the walls, in the ceiling – _trapped_.

“I wasn’t sure Fiddlesticks had gotten that last symbol correct.” The tables have turned. Bill is the one who’s cornered now, at Stanley’s absolute mercy. “But I knew Ford was runnin’ outta time. So… I got Fiddles to try and work on extracting a _different_ fifteenth symbol, while I came down here and stalled ya. Pretty clever, huh?”

“But – the first sigil…!” Bill stammers. His gaze flickers over to the now inactive bolts.

“That? _That_ was the backup plan. We had fourteen definite symbols, with everything else hingin’ on that last one to be correct.” Stan lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Didn’t see no harm in makin’ an excess of ‘em.”

“I WILL END YOU,” Bill rages. His voice has warped, twisted, _decayed_. His eyes – all three of them – open impossibly wide, tearing at the seams, leaving crimson trails down Ford’s cheeks, nose, and forehead, until blood is dripping off his chin in a steady patter. His arms come up to clutch at his distended abdomen, at the Thing, in a desperate, pointless act of preservation. He claws at his stomach in vain. “FOR ONE TRILLION YEARS I’VE BEEN ROTTING IN MY OWN DECAYING DIMENSION! I WAS _SO_ CLOSE!” 

“You messed with my brother.” Stanley steps right up to him, completely unafraid. He leers. It’s an ugly, enraged grin. “You got under his skin. You called him Sixer.

“ _No one else_ gets to do that to him but _me_.”

x x x

 _“YOU WILL BURN.”_ Stan draws back his hand again, the one with the Eye of Providence carved into it. This time, it glows blue as well. _“NOITARENEG ERITNE RUOY NOPU ESRUC A! EMAN YLIMAF SENIP EHT NOPU ESRUC A!!”_

“Get out of my brother’s body, you evil triangle,” Stan snarls.

He slams the heel of his palm into Bill’s bloody third eye.

It bursts. Bill releases a terrible wail that Stan is sure will haunt his nightmares for years to come. 

The world turns grey. Something yellow flies out from Stanford’s body.

It’s sucked into the portal with a screech.

x x x

He catches Stanford as the other falls.

“We did it, bro!” He lowers them to the floor, grinning madly. “Bill’s gone! It’s over!”

Ford doesn’t speak. His shoulders begin to quake.

“Hey, c’mon, don’t – don’t _cry_ , geez.” He laughs awkwardly. “We’ll have plenty of time to do that after we…”

It’s only then that Stan becomes aware of a wetness seeping through where he’s kneeling. He looks down.

He’s kneeling in a rapidly expanding pool of blood.

Blood that’s coming from between Stanford’s legs, and –

“Oh, _shit_.” He rushes as Stanford opens his mouth to scream. “ _Shit_ …! H-Help! Somebody – HELP!!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh geez Rick


	13. Afterbirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford, and Stan, deal with the aftermath of their harrowing ordeal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In point form, because this list is so fucking massive now:
> 
> Warnings/Triggers for this chapter are as follows:  
> \- a lot of fucking angst  
> \- a lot of fucking drama  
> \- blood  
> \- gore  
> \- body horror  
> \- so much fucking body horror  
> \- allusions to traumatic birth  
> \- allusions to stillbirth  
> \- dead babies  
> \- dead baby dolls  
> \- questionable physical handling of the above  
> \- allusions to implied rape or similarities to it  
> \- depression, in general and/or brought on by ptsd/postpartum  
> \- possible body dysmorphia  
> \- scene jumping like whoa
> 
> This chapter also contains -the- scene. THE scene. You know the one. The one that everyone always skips forward to read in an mpreg fic and then gets disappointed when it's completely skimmed over or only briefly mentioned. No, I didn't write one either. Sorry to get your hopes up. 
> 
> It's nothing explicitly graphic (everything is just hinted at, honestly) and it's mentioned in extremely brief flashbacks, but if you'd like to skip it, it starts after "Stan slumps back in his seat, defeated." to "You're avoiding the question," Ford says." 
> 
> The dead baby scene starts from, "It's not moving." (yes, I know, that sounded obvious) to "It's a crass plan of action...", if you want to skip that, too.
> 
> No offense was intended in writing this fan fic. Please speak to and/or with someone you can trust or are close with if you are going through any issues related to the above. I sincerely apologize for upsetting any of my readers. 
> 
> (Annnnnd with that, this fic goes from a Mature to an Explicit rating. Tags and warnings will be updated accordingly.)

_“Sixer! How_ dare _you! Looking at_ pornography _? When you’ve got_ me _?!”_

 _Bill breaks down into exaggerated blubbering. He pulls out a handkerchief from between two of his bricks and blows dramatically into it with his eye. “I-I thought w-we had s-something_ s-special _…!”_

 _Ford rolls his eyes as Bill continues theatrically wailing and beating tiny fists into his shoulder. “Since you’ve been_ so kind _as to keep waving off all appeals I’ve made to try and understand_ whatever _it is you did to my_ biology _, I thought I’d take things into my own hands and try to comprehend the phenomenon myself.” He scoffs as he turns the pages of the medical textbook he’s reading. “I swear, it’s almost like this relationship is one-sided, sometimes…”_

 _It’s Bill’s turn to roll his eye. “You do realize I told you not to worry your head about it because the intricacies of the ritual are about neigh_ incomprehensible _to the limited scope of human understanding. It’s – heh –_ out of this world _, really!”_

_“You remember what I came to Gravity Falls for? Something along the lines of unraveling the mysteries of the unknown? Yeah… that thing.”_

_Bill snorts. “Silly me. I forgot.”_

_Ford shakes his head, but he’s still smiling. He turns his attention back to the pages before him. Detailed, grayscale diagrams depict cross-sections, as well illustrations of internal and external workings of both the male and female human reproductive systems. Several more books and clinical catalogues are stacked on either side of him, every single one of them related to the process of human pregnancy and childbirth._

_“Gotta say, IQ, your dedication to this is remarkable. I can’t say I’m not impressed.”_

_“Can’t call myself your devotee without giving you my utmost devotion.”_

_“Ugh, you sap.” Bill shudders… but it’s clear he’s pleased._

x x x

_“HERE’S… ANOTHER… PUZZLE…!”_

_Bill sounds_ insane _._

 _“WHAT HAPPENS… WHEN YOU GET RID OF… THE_ ONLY _THING… THAT’S KEPT YOU_ ALIVE _?!”_

x x x

He remembers flailing like a headless chicken, right alongside Stanley, when Ma had announced she had gone into labor.

“For god’s sakes, the both of you, _sit down_ ,” their father had snapped, even though he’d appeared to be just as on edge himself. His forehead was slick with sweat and his thick, bushy moustache appeared to be more twitchy than usual. There were hints of rarely-observed panic in eyes obscured by tinted lenses. “You aren’t helping the situation any.”

“The _three_ of you stop yelling before I _beat you all unconscious with the phone_ ,” Ma had growled, and all three males had frozen simultaneously in submission to the mighty lioness of the household, “This baby’s _not_ coming right away, and we’re _not_ leaving for the hospital until this darn apple pie that I’ve slaved over all morning is at least done baking.”

Stanley was nearly hyperventilating. “But what if you have the baby in the kitchen?!”

Ma just waved him off. “The two of you knuckleheads took a good ten extra hours in my belly before my waters even broke. It’s fine. Filbrick, honey, _please_ stop glaring at the kids like that. They can’t help their concern.”  

They were both sent up to their room. The brothers had laid down stiffly on their respective beds in awkward silence, the music from Stan’s radio barely cloaking the various groans that echoed up the staircase as their mother vocally weathered her way through the intensifying contractions.   

“I want _at least_ three pieces of that pie remaining in the fridge when we get back from the hospital,” she shouted up the stairs five hours later. The door slammed shut, the car drove off, and then… there was blessed, _blessed_ silence.

“I’m _never_ having kids.” Stan was pale.

Ford was of similar pallor. “Agreed.”

x x x

Ford realizes that their victory in defeating Bill has gone _horrifically_ _wrong_ in the split second before Bill is torn out from his body.

Their original plan – or Ford’s plan, rather – had been to sacrifice himself in the process of destroying Bill, should he ever have gotten re-possessed. Stan, who had been adamant on finding an alternative solution, had opted for – and successfully expelled – the demon from Ford’s body instead.

The problem lay in their respective knowledge about Bill, and the timing said knowledge had been disclosed to them.

Stanley expelled Bill.

Bill was the Vessel.

_Stanley hadn’t known that._

x x x

He remembers thinking, _it's coming too fast. It –_

Pain spears him. It decimates him. He’s rupturing from the inside-out. He's –

x x x

Bright.

Hurts his eyes.

The ground is trembling. He's being roughly jostled around. Earthquake?

Something keeps beeping. Alarm?

Too many people shouting. He wishes it would –

Wait.

Oh.

OH!

He bolts upright. It's like someone's taken his legs and _yanked_ them each in different directions. He's being ripped _straight up through his center_ but it doesn't matter, _nothing matters_ because _oh god_ oh fuck oh no no nonono _no_ fuck, _fuck_! Bill’s still alive! _Bill's still fucking_ KILL ME “– _KILL ME_ – ” RIGHT NOW!! YOU _PROMISED_ , STAN! YOU! “– _PROMISED! ME!_ ” DO IT! _DO IT_ KILL US _RIGHT FUCKING N –_  

x x x

He’s a sunken weight but he’s also floating.

 _– of it,_ someone screams, _just fuckin’_ SAVE HIM _, JESUS CHRIST! USE MY –_

x x x

 _“_ Embalming _,” Bill whispers gleefully._

 _Stanford’s eyebrows furrow. “That’s… what they do to_ dead _people. Not live ones – oh my GOD. No.  NO. BILL, THAT’S –_ EW _!!”_

 _The muse cackles wildly and continues, his tone fond, almost longing, even, “Traditionally, the brain goes first, but what fun would that be if they were comatose for most of the procedure? No. No, no. Imagine: the poor bloke just screaming internally, unable to make a sound, unable to move a muscle, but able to feel_ evvvvvverything _that’s happening to him, as they cut into his side and just… reach in there and dig around. No gloves or anything. I mean, if you’re dead why bother with hygiene, right? And – ”_

_“I really would prefer not knowing the details of your methods of torture, Bill,” Ford manages through clenched teeth._

_“Don’t lie, brainiac. You’re morbidly fascinated by it. You just want to_ pretend _you still have some semblance of humanity.” Bill chuckles and gives him a_ look _, one that has Stanford scowling and covering his face with both hands even more, even as he continues peeking through the gap between his fingers and as the heat from his cheeks blossoms to envelope his entire face._

 _“Most of them die before the disembowelment is even halfway complete, of course. Humans have pain thresholds that are embarrassingly_ virgin _.” Bill rubs his hands together. “But the removal of the brain – oh, this is my FAVORITE part! Visualize it with me, Sixer. Picture it in all of its gory glory. Just sticking a hook up the nose and into the skull and just… scraping around in there. Like it’s a coconut! Until it’s leaking brain snot. Pulling larger chunks out the nose cavities. Coated in mucus, blood and miscellaneous viscera – ”_

_“Why do I still love you,” Ford groans._

x x x

 _“ – and that’s, that’s not even the half of it…!” His face is flushed, his eyes are bright and his grin is wide, joyous, like an expanse of morning sky over an open, sun-kissed field. He continues gesticulating wildly, unable to contain his enthusiasm, “The supposedly self-propelled Betz Mystery Sphere of dubious origins. Flying saucer sightings. The Roswell UFO incident. The sailing stones of the Racetrack Playa. Spontaneous human combustion! The unexplained disappearances in the Bermuda Triangle! Who built the Egyptian Pyramids?! And those… are just the small_ fraction _of cases discovered on_ Earth _!”_

_Stanford flings his arms wide, up to where the planets continue to lazily spin and the star clusters wink back at him._

_“I_ know _we’re not alone.” He spreads the twelve fingers of his hands against the vastness of the galaxy above them and it’s almost like he can touch it. It’s so close. “There’s a reason for the weirdness that exists in this world, and it’s_ somewhere out there _. I want to learn about it. I want to_ know _about it. I want to_ be there _.”_

_He turns back towards Bill and startles to find the other right behind him. Ford recovers quickly, laughing._

_“I’m so glad I met you.” He gazes at Bill, his muse, his god, his heart racing. “I’m so glad you reached out to me.”_

_Bill takes hold of Stanford’s face in his hands as he draws them closer together. He closes his eye as they touch foreheads and Bill sends a single, slow pulse of his aura through Stanford that causes the other to gasp as it melts into him._

_Stanford’s laughter turns to giddy giggling. “It’s times like these… when I really wish you weren’t incorporeal.”_

_Bill chuckles warmly. He sends out another small pulse._

_“That could be arranged...”_

x x x

He’s vaguely aware that he’s crying, but he can’t wake up. He doesn’t _want_ to wake up. Once he does, everything’s only going to get worse.

He’s tired. Everything hurts. It feels like he’s been ripped apart, in both his heart and mind and body _(until the end of time)_ and then just hastily mashed back together too quickly. Like someone just said, “You know what? It doesn’t matter. He’s in one piece again; he’s good to go.”

Something soothes his forehead. It’s too big, too warm to be Bill.

 _You’re safe,_ someone says. _You’re okay. Sleep, now…_

He does.

x x x

It feels like he's been stuffed full of heavy lead.

Stanford tries to speak. What comes out instead is a painfully dry, rattling rasp. His throat seizes and he chokes.

Someone slides a hand behind his head, pressing hard plastic encouragingly against his parched lips. Stanford accepts the drink instantly and without question.

"Where – " he tries.

"You're at the hospital." His brother carefully lowers him back to the pillows and sets aside the plastic cup of water on the bedside table. He faintly registers that Stanley has bandages around his neck, forehead, and one of his hands. It looks like he hasn’t shaved, nor slept, in days. "Don't worry, I shut the portal down – "

"– Bill – "

"Gone." The smile stays on Stan's face, but it's pulled taut, rigid. "For now, at least.  I… I wanted ta kill 'im, but I – "

"No!" Ford hisses. His throat aches with the strain of raising his voice to audible levels. "Where is It? _Where is Bill's Vessel?_ "

Stan laughs, nervously.

"Look, pal, it's... It's been a hell of a week, and you've only just – "

 _"_ Stanley _."_ He watches as his brother's excuses die in his throat. _"Where. Is. It."_

Stanley doesn't reply. When he opens his mouth again Ford recognizes the _look_ he has in his eyes.

"Don't you _dare_ lie to me!"

"Ford..."

"DON’T!" Ford squeezes his eyes shut. "Stan, don't. Not you. Not about _this_." The lump in his throat breaks open and his voice cracks, "No more lies. I can't... You're the _only_ person left. Please... _Don't. Lie._ "

Stan's face is an emotional battlefield, expressions warring for the forefront. They're all pained, conflicted.

"...You're not going to like what I'm about to tell you."

"As long as it's the truth."

Stan slumps back in his seat, defeated.

x x x

"It... started, the moment I got rid of Bill. You collapsed. You were bleedin' out. There was... It was _everywhere_."

x x x

_"Stanley, help me."_

_Ford's staring at him. Through him. He isn't there._

_Another splatter of blood._

_"Stanley, do something – "_

x x x

"What happened after that... It wasn't natural. All the worst case scenarios you came up with...

"They weren't even _close_."

x x x

_He barely manages to get the other's blood-soaked clothes off before he has to catch It._

_Stanford continues to hemorrhage._

x x x

"You're avoiding the question," Ford says.

Stan has started to physically tremble. He pries his fingers from each other, pulling his clasped hands apart, before interlocking and dismantling them all over again.

His gaze is firmly set on the vase of fake flowers somewhere behind Stanford’s head.

"…It wasn't human."

"Tell me something I don't already know."

"No.” Stan barks a shrill laugh. “You remember what I said, when you first told me about this whole mess? That because Bill had never succeeded at this, that th'baby might have been a chance of bein' human after all?"

"Get to the – "

"It was." Stan tears his gaze away from the flowers. He locks eyes with his brother and Stanford feels like he's been bludgeoned all over again, bile rising in his throat as Stanley continues, "It _was_ human and... at the same time, it _wasn't_. It only _looked_ human. But... I _knew_ , just _looking_ at it, t-that... Oh _god_ , Stanford!"

Stan's hands come up to clutch at his hair, to claw at his face, his eyes. He hunches over in his seat like he's withering. Like he’s been poisoned. Like he’s dying.

"It _was_ yours," Stan whispers. His breathing is ragged. "That sick son of a bitch…!"

Stanford feels... nothing. Somehow, he knows what the next words out of Stan's mouth are going to be.

He can't say he's surprised. Or disgusted. Or... anything at all. He'd already started shutting down before their conversation began. It comes clanking down like a heavy iron door, rattling from the weight of the chains and locks that are wrapped tightly about it.

It's just too much.

"Let me guess," Stanford says, dully. "Six fingers on each hand."

Stan gives a pained, horrified whimper as confirmation.

The iron door over Stanford’s heart seals shut.

x x x

_It's not moving._

_There's no heartbeat. No pulse._

_Nothing to indicate it had ever been alive to begin with._

_He supposes he should be grateful for that._

_It's still attached to the veiny mass of bloody tissue and fluids that was expelled with it. Still repulsively warm in his hands, from the retained heat of its origins._

_The detail is uncanny: from the little feathering of pale blue veins across the backs of tiny, chubby hands, the creases where the fat folds double on themselves, to the nearly invisible hairs that cover the surface of its body like fine down._

_It's an extremely realistic, disturbingly lifelike... perfect_ replica _of a human baby._

_A thin, vertical slit lies nestled between the creases of its wrinkled forehead. He has no doubt that if he peels back the flaps of skin there that there would be a yellowed, slit eye staring right back at him. But that isn’t what's gotten his attention._

_He counts them, sure that it's a trick of the dim light. That he's seeing things. He wipes the sweat and tears out of his eyes with blood stained hands and counts them over again._

_The figures do not change (twelve) despite his desperate mantra for them to._

_He has to put It down, then. He tears off his shirt and hurriedly wraps It up and sets It as far away from him as he can while barely resisting the overpowering rush of revulsion and absolute_ hatred _to dash It to bloody chunks against the floor._

_Stanford hasn't stirred. He's completely lifeless, eyes glazed, vacantly staring up at the ceiling._

_He seems nearly dead, but when Stan places shaking fingers under his nose he registers the faintest of exhales._

_Ensuring that his brother lives feels like the cruelest execution there is._

x x x

It was a crass plan of action, but the paranoia of someone stumbling upon the bloody scene and discovering It – or worse, if Bill had found some way to make it back to them – forced him to relocate It before they vacated the premises.

He’d hastily unlocked one of the wall cabinets, emptied it; stuffed the Thing into the very back of it before shoving the original artifacts back in. It was a poor attempt at hiding It, but he didn’t time to worry over its aesthetics.

Ford elicits a muted reaction of surprise when he learns that his ex-assistant had been the one to transport them to the hospital. More, when it’s revealed that the blood transfusion which had pulled him back from the brink of death had been contributed by one and the same.

“Asked them t’use mine, at first, obviously.” Stan looks oddly ashamed. “I mean… twins. Not gonna get a better match elsewhere. Told ‘em to use all of it if they had to; drain me as long as it meant keepin’ you alive. But they couldn’t… use my blood.” He shifts in his seat and doesn’t meet Ford’s gaze. “Wasn’t… wasn’t suitable. But there wasn’t enough of our type in storage available for transfusion, an’ that’s when Fiddlesticks stepped in ta offer his. Didn’t understand the mumbo jumbo science of it, but apparently his blood can be accepted by everyone. So… that was convenient.”

There’s a brief lull in the conversation.

“He’s… got a memory gun,” Stan ventures, hesitantly. “It erases memories. Haven’t asked ‘im yet, but… don’t think he’d mind if you wanted t’borrow it.”

Ford chuckles darkly. “I wondered how he was coping with all of this.”

“Is… that a yes?”

“Is the memory loss permanent?”

Stan falters.

“…No.”

“Then there’s my answer.”

x x x

They’ve beaten Bill.

They’ve prevented him from gaining physical form. They’ve stopped him from tearing the universe apart. They’ve saved the world from an early demise that it hadn’t even been aware of.

It’s the worst victory he’s ever tasted.

What do they have to show for it? Nothing, that’s what.

That Fiddleford had a working, albeit short-term memory eraser for his mind at the ready wasn’t the most comforting factoid to begin with. If he’d been distressed from his short fall into the portal before, the man was most likely insane by now after what he’d witnessed, or was at least well on his way there.  

He can tell Stanley blames himself. His brother might not have known about Bill being the Vessel when it happened (neither of them had predicted Bill to have infiltrated the Vessel before it was even ready) but the destruction left from the aftermath of his actions has clearly traumatized the other. He’d promised Stanford he would save him, and he’d ended up nearly being the cause of his own brother’s death instead.

Not that Stanford feels anywhere close to the definition of being alive at the moment. Only physically, perhaps; after all, his heart’s still beeping steadily on the monitor, and his lungs are still pulling in breaths. But his insides feel dead and rotted; hollowed and empty, like the brittle shell of an infested, decaying tree.

Everything feels completely meaningless.

Bill never loved him. All he’d labored over had been a waste. Any relationship he has left is in tatters.

Every day had been a matter of dragging himself through the motions and telling himself his daily lie: _Just one more day._ And now that Day has finally come – and he feels like nothing but a huge, gigantic failure.

He’s so _tired_.      

x x x

He doesn’t want to have to talk anymore, but he forces the words through his lips as he pulls at the remaining information Stanley has to offer him.

He’d been comatose for four days. They’d brought him in the morning of the incident, got him stabilized by the evening of the second, and then it was a matter of waiting until he woke up. Stanley hasn’t left his side since his admission, as he’s suspected, opting instead to sleep in the uncomfortable, tiny plastic chair beside his bed.

The bandages around Stan’s forehead, neck and hand are his own handiwork. Stan doesn’t explain them.

Fiddleford had stayed around until Stanford’s condition had stabilized. Then he’d left. He hadn’t come back. Hadn’t said anything to Stanley, either, if he’s reading his brother’s rigid body language correctly.

They tread into touchier territory: How much was the bill? (“A lot.”) Who was paying for it? (“You, obviously, Mr. Scholarships!” “They might revoke my grants after this, actually…”) What did the hospital staff know?

“They certainly had, uh, questions, about that unauthorized surgery in your head.” Stan rubs the back of his neck. “No records on file. Told ‘em I knew nothin’ about it. Just dropped in from New Mexico, found ya bleeding in your house and brought ya here.”

“Did they say anything? About…?”

“Loada technical gobbledygook junk got thrown around, but apparently, they couldn’t pinpoint the source of your blood loss. Yeah, I know. Right?” Stan’s looking off to the side. “Here’s the kicker – they found nothing. And I mean, _nothing_. All they got for their case file is that you were suddenly missing nearly a half-gallon of blood, with no wounds to explain why. The scars from the plate in yer head are months old; didn’t match up. They – went – _nuts_.”

x x x

It’s been roughly over an hour since he’d awoken, but it feels like an entire day has gone by already.

“You left a fresh cadaver to stew inside an enclosed, unventilated space for four days.” Ford glares at his twin from the bed. “Get going before it completely liquefies.”

Stan doesn’t budge an inch, eyes on the floor.

“I messed up leaving the last time – ”

“ – and there’s nothing left _to_ mess up. It already _is_.”

It’s a low, unfair blow, but it does the trick.

Ford drags himself into the bathroom as soon as Stanley’s out of sight.

x x x

The mirror is the first thing he sees.

He flinches, tears his eyes away from it as fast as he’s able, but that brief moment of looking at what he’s become sends a jolt of unpleasant shock through him. He hasn’t properly looked into a mirror for the longest time, not even when he was trying to copy down the sigil on his abdomen.

He doesn’t recognize himself. For perhaps the first time in his life, he looks absolutely nothing like his twin. He isn’t sure how to feel about that. Stan’s always been a little bulkier than the both of them, to be fair, but… “slim” was not a descriptive that would have ever applied to either twin.

His reflection had been frighteningly skeletal. The circles under his eyes are so dark they look nearly bruised. His cheeks are sunken, hollowed. The hospital gown is nearly falling off his shoulders – he can see the full outline of his clavicles, now – and it hangs loosely off of him, almost like a dress. The hospital wristband has become more of an elbowband.

He keeps moving, dragging the cumbersome IV drip along with him, almost leaning fully on it for support. Every step feels like a white-hot poker lancing through him. He dimly wonders how the hell the doctors hadn’t picked up on his apparently internal injuries. It feels like someone had reached in through his nethers, grabbed a fistful of intestines, and yanked them out until his entire digestive system was outside of him. Then stuffed them back in they way they’d came.   

He collapses onto the closed toilet lid. The waistband of his pants are so loose on his hips that he doesn’t need to take them off in order to shove a hand inside.  

He’s completely male.

It’s gone.

x x x

He stares down at himself, uncomprehending.

 _It makes sense._ The flesh of his stomach is still horribly marred, angry red streaks down the front of it, and his doctors must be fucking blind to miss the way it loosely sags over his pelvis, too much excess skin and growth to be on such an otherwise emaciated man. _Bill was the only reason any of this had been possible. So, naturally, once he was expelled, it took everything he’d changed and made along_ with _him…_

He touches it gingerly – big mistake.

 _My,_ Bill’s voice sneers, _how you’ve grown!_

He retches violently.

x x x

The nurse frowns, but obliges his odd request.

When Stan returns, Ford’s donned a thick pair of five-fingered winter gloves.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess that chestburster thing wasn't too far off, huh
> 
> Dead baby dolls - Yes, this exists. Some people collect these for a hobby, some others, mostly mothers or mother-to-be, use it as a method to cope with losses from miscarriages or stillbirths. They are... /extremely/ lifelike dolls of newborn babies, to the point where people have reportedly smashed in car windows to get out what they thought was a baby dying of heatstroke in the vehicle. As usual, however, the uncanny valley exists for a reason. Click at your own risk. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reborn_doll) and (http://www.reborns.com/)
> 
> Childbirth obviously never happens that quickly. There's the first stage of contractions, the second stage of actually getting the baby out, and then the third stage of delivering the placenta, or the afterbirth. This can take up to several hours depending on various numerous factors. I took many, many liberties with the timeframe for this. In case, you know, you haven't picked up on that from my giving Ford a magical vagina
> 
> This should round up by Chapter 15, and I've made the updates accordingly. And I haven't forgotten that this is a BillFord fic. That asshole will be back. 
> 
> I love how ridiculously lengthy my later chapters get in comparison to the first few hoo boy if I could re-write and expand on the first few without fucking everything up I would
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	14. Post-Partum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanford returns home. The tense situation between the brothers escalates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers/warnings for this chapter are:  
> \- dead babies  
> \- autopsies. ...Yep. It's going where you think it's going.  
> \- mentions of self-harm  
> \- outright talk about suicide  
> \- issues related to severe depression  
> \- very dreary writing in all senses of the word
> 
> Please proceed with caution. 
> 
> 20-, 100-, and 300- formats as usual, but I've opted to remove my usual "x x x" separations from where they seem to flow together, for easier reading.
> 
> This update was so friggin' long I ended up having to break it into two parts. So... two-chapter update. Yay?

The days blur together.

Ford lapses in and out of consciousness. He never remembers falling asleep... only waking up. The nurse would be asking him mundane questions, like _how was he_ , or _isn’t the weather wonderful today_ , or changing his IV, or noting down something on his chart; he’d close his eyes for just a second and when he re-opened them it would be night and visiting hours were over.

Stan’s only question to him about his gloved hands had been “Did you cut them off?!” When Ford pulls the gloves off and wriggles all twelve fingers for verification, Stan nearly collapses out of relief.

“Oh, thank _god,”_  Stan breathes. Ford tugs the gloves back on. He doesn't want to feel himself. The last two fingers of his hands protest against being squeezed, but he ignores them. “For a moment I thought… I was afraid you were gonna…”

“I’m in a hospital, Stan. If I’d wanted to hurt myself, I’d do it in a place where they couldn’t revive me. Don’t worry about it.”

Stan frowns at him, unsure if he’s joking. “Now _that’s_ even more disturbing…”

Every time he blinks it seems that Stanley’s either shifted in his chair, or gone missing from the room altogether. The latter is becoming the more common sight. Stan had done his best to stick around, but his brother’s patience has never been lengthier than the space between his furrowed brows. When Ford’s responses to him go from singular words to monosyllabic grunts, and then finally nothing at all, there’s only so many times Stan can keep holding a conversation with himself before the sheer frustration of silence drives him from the room.

If Ford’s going to be honest, he prefers it this way. He’s in enough debt to Stan as it is. 

x x x

The doctors ask him many questions.

It’s annoying to deal with. If he ignores them or feigns insanity, they might call for psychiatrists to deal with him, and then he would never leave. But he’s stayed for too long. There are things he urgently needs to tend to. Like the massive blood stain and universe portal sitting in his basement.

Like the dead, inhuman fetus he’d supposedly delivered.

He settles for something they can’t fault him for.

“I don’t remember.” That’s all they’re getting out of him. “I’m sorry, I really don’t. _Please_ stop asking. I want to go home.” 

x x x

There’s nothing in the databanks about him, of course. All his records match up. Stanford Filbrick Pines. Born in Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey. Graduated from Backupsmore. Moved to Gravity Falls, Oregon, about five or six years ago. No criminal records or suspicious history.

“I don’t remember what happened,” he repeats, calmly, to his very confused and _frustrated_ doctors. “I want to go home.”

They release him reluctantly.

Physically, he’s in the clear, but their patient insists that he’s still in agony whenever he has to bear his own weight. After much bartering (and a few threatening glares and fist smacks from the man that’s constantly hovering beside him), Stanford gets his wheelchair.

Stanley handles their paperwork. The nurse hands him a copy of Ford’s bloodwork results, xrays, machine readings, and a separate lab report that’s addressed to Stan instead. Ford’s not really paying attention, but he catches the words _false positives_ and _protection_ and Stanley simply nods fast and mutely and hastily signs it all off with relief.  

The house is… different. It’s clean. The sigils they’d drawn up have been scrubbed off the walls, the floor. Anything vaguely resembling a triangle in shape has been torn down, dismantled, or destroyed.

“Figured you wouldn’t appreciate reminders of the bastard around the house,” Stan explains, when Ford stares at him, blankly. “And I _did_ ask ya if it was okay to toss shit out. You weren’t answerin’ me, so… fuck it. I tossed ‘em anyway. Not gonna be sorry for that. …Jerk.”

The last word is tacked on as an afterthought, a flimsy, cautious attempt at casual humor.

“Mm. Thanks,” Stanford says.

He watches through his peripheral vision as Stanley opens his mouth angrily.

“I’m… gonna go continue cleanin’ up the basement,” Stanley grits.

He stomps away.

Ford lets him.

x x x

It’s weird getting back on his feet.

It’s weirder being able to _see_ them.

It’s days before he stops waddling.

x x x

_Week 42 Day 5_

_Subject separated itself from host body approximately 14 days prior to entry log._

It’s decomposed, as he’d expected, but he supposes it could have been in worse states of deterioration. He’d instructed Stanley to place the remains of the Thing in a ventilated Styrofoam cooler, along with dry ice, to help preserve it.

_There had been severe interference with the circumstances prior to its arrival. I am unfortunately unable to record the exact nature of its delivery. I can only assume it would have followed the same processes that govern most mammalian pregnancies._

His pen moves slowly across the paper and he maps out the placement of its internal organs. The heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, stomach, intestines… they’re all where they’re supposed to be. The only things missing from the otherwise completely-human form are its obvious lack of external genitalia and internal sexual organs. He supposes it makes sense. Bill never had a use for sex.  

Structurally, its human eyes are normal, aside from being an unnatural shade of ochre and bearing vertically slit pupils. The third eye in its forehead, while visually similar, more closely resembles the anatomy of a snake’s.

 _I do not believe that subject’s twelve fingers are a biological inheritance, despite it being a autosomal dominant gene, and only one “parent” who contributed the trait._ _I’ve sent some samples anonymously to confirm it, but… I’m convinced this development was intended to be more of an offense to myself, instead. Perhaps an attempt to insult me – a last-minute modification directly prior to Bill’s ejection. The addition of it… It’s a little too much. Very Bill-like, to be honest._

_The paternity tests are due back any day now. I suppose we’ll see._

_Week 43 Day 4_

_None of the alleles matched up._

_Not one._

x x x

They dig the small grave in silence.

Stanford chose it. It’s the same tree he’d fallen asleep against, where he’d first met Bill in the Dreamscape. Stanley doesn’t question how he knows it’s _this_ tree out of the hundreds of others in the area.

After he’d completed the autopsy, he’d stitched it back together, wrapped it up in soft, clean cotton sheets. Stanford gently lays this bundle down inside the hole.

Then he salts it, douses it with gasoline, and sets the tiny body aflame.  

He marks a rock with an anti-Bill sigil and places it over the loosened soil.

x x x

He can’t say he’s surprised to see Fiddleford.

“You’re leaving.”

“Yes.”

Fiddleford has his hands in his pockets. He shifts his weight, but it’s a movement borne of calmness, not anxiety. He takes a deep inhale and meets Stanford’s eyes without flinching, a hint of a tired smile on his lips. “I’ve figured out what I need ta do.”

 _Run away? Again?_ Stanford thinks, bitterly. _Because that’s the easy way out?_

It’s as though Fiddleford can read his mind. The man shakes his head, his chuckles soft, mirthless. “Runnin’ away from my problems was one’a the _worst_ decisions I ever made. I’m movin’ back with my family. …To Palo Alto. Not ta escape the consequences of my choices, but because I need the time and distance ta fix things.” He looks back over his shoulder at where his car sits rumbling behind them, hooked up to a trailer, and his gaze settles tenderly on his wife, who’s cooing at their baby in the backseat. “Damaged more than m’mind when I started usin’ that memory gun, and it’s gunna take a long time for things to heal. I’ve accepted that. I might not be able to unsee what I’ve seen, but… I wanna make things right again. The _right_ way, this time.”

_Good for you._

But Stanford stays silent, his face continuing to remain impassive. Rationally, in the back of his mind, he knows he should be glad for his friend for moving on. He should be spouting apologies for having involved Fiddleford in his business. He should be spewing thanks because his friend had stuck around, had helped him, had saved his life. Emotionally, however, he feels nothing.

He can’t bring it in himself to care, nor can he feel guilty for the lack of said feelings to begin with.

 

“Thank you. For all you’ve done,” he says, finally.

He hopes he sounds sincere, because he is. He just can’t seem to pull himself together enough to express as such.

“All the best to you. And your family.”

Fiddleford gets this _look_ – the same one that’s been crossing Stanley’s face more and more often as of late – and Stanford jerks when the man actually reaches out to pull him into a hug.

He returns it awkwardly, slightly baffled. A punch, or several, would have been better received.

Fiddleford gives him a squeeze and a couple of gentle pats before pulling away. He looks like he wants to say more then, but the inventor shakes his head a little and reaches into his breast pocket instead. He presses a name card into Stanford’s hands.

Ford blinks dumbly down at it. ‘Fiddleford Computer Majigs’ the logo reads. There’s an address for Palo Alto neatly printed on it, complete with phone number.

“Take care’a yerself, Stanford.” Fiddleford is still smiling, but his sadness and regret is palpable. “Don’t… don’t be a stranger. Alrigh’? An’ for what it’s worth… I’m sorry. That things had t’turn out the way they did.”

Stanley comes forward to bid him goodbye, as well. They share a very stiff, formal handshake, before Stan groans in exasperation and pulls them into a fierce bear hug that has Fiddleford’s feet dangling off the ground, as he chokes and pounds on the other’s head to let him go.

They continue waving the car off as Fiddleford reverses away from the cabin and drives off into the distance. In the backseat, Mrs McGucket holds up one of her son’s arms and floppily waves back at them, beaming.

The car rounds the bend leading out of the woods. And with that… Fiddleford is gone.

x x x

It's just him and Stanley.

Again.

Stanford doesn't know what he wants to do. What they're _both_ supposed to do.

He doesn't want to think about it. Doesn't want to do a single thing except to keep ignoring it. They'd both turned a blind eye to the yawning rift between them while they'd focused on coming together to defeat the common enemy, but now that said enemy is gone the ugly beast rears its head full force.

It's grown. It's massive, unavoidable; the ugliest elephant there is to have ever graced a room. Some scars have broken open, festered. There are fresh, raw wounds. It's hurt. It's angry. It's confused. Its desperation only grows with each minute of added silence between the brothers. By the time dinner rolls around it's expanded to fill the entire room, nearly swelling to burst.

Stanford silently hands over the letter he's had prepared for Stanley months ago, days after he’d set foot in Gravity Falls. Stanley handles it likes he's been given a biological weapon.

His eyes widen at its contents.

"For your help." Stanford continues pushing his food around on his plate. He misses, or rather, ignores, the expression of absolute _fury_ on Stan's visage, "I've calculated it. Five months, and extra to cover for the inconvenience, damages... possible trauma. If it doesn't meet your expectations, I'll gladly – ” 

 _"What is_ wrong _with you?"_

Stanford continues to play with his food.

"...I take it to mean you find the compensation unsatisfactory – ”

A deafening, anguished roar _erupts_ out of Stanley.

He grabs the plate out from under Stanford, hurls it to the ground. The ceramic explodes. Ford finds himself yanked up by the collar of his shirt as his brother bodily lifts him out of his seat.

"You think this is about _money_?!"

 

He knows full well it isn't. Not even close.

"It’s not?" Ford offers anyway, monotonous.

Stan shakes his brother, completely enraged but equally helpless all the same.

"Why are you _doing_ this?!" The dam breaks. The torrent of questions come pouring out, tumbling over each other, unchecked, "Why do you keep – ?  Is this because I screwed up?! Because I shoulda ‘ended you’, like you wanted, an' I didn't? Or have I served my purpose? 'You're done here, Stan, now leave'? _News flash_ , Poindexter: _I ain't fuckin' leavin'!_ And it's _not_ about the goddamn _money_!!”

“You’ve done enough.” Stan cringes at this, as he’d expected, misunderstanding him, so Ford continues, in the same, fatigued, resigned tone of voice, “You didn’t ‘screw up’. It’s nothing you could have prevented. Neither of us knew things would have played out the way they had, and regardless of the outcome, it was going to be incredibly messy either way. You did your best. You saved me.” 

Stan laughs. “Yeah, because you’re obviously just _leapin’ with joy_ at bein’ alive, aren’t ya?”

“I won’t bother you any further, Stan.” His brother is so incredibly frustrated. It’s almost fascinating to watch. “You did what I asked of you, and even more than that. Thank you for your help. You’re free to leave.”

“Wow. ‘Thank you’. _Now_ I know something’s definitely wrong.”

Stan drops him back into his seat. He leans back against the wall and drags a shaking hand across his face.

For a long time neither of them speak. Ford turns his attention to the shattered ceramic over the floor and starts idly counting the shards. One, five, seven…

 “…could we talk this through?” Stan asks, finally.

Ford looks up with mild surprise.

Stan is the most solemn Ford’s ever seen him.

“Please,” Stan says. 

 

Stan sits.

Ford stays silent, waiting for the other to make the first move.

It’s… highly unusual for Stan to want to “talk” about anything. Ever. Stanley’s always been more of a “punch first, regret it later” kind of guy. He definitely isn’t one for words, going by the countless memories he has of his brother outright falling asleep during their Literature classes. (Heck, he’d even nodded off during some of his explanations about _Bill_!) Even with ten years between them, it’s hard to imagine that his brother could have changed that much. 

So Stanley wanting to initiate actual, in-depth conversation… it’s certainly stayed his interest. 

“I’m sorry,” Stan begins. He folds his hands between his knees and stares at the floor.

“It wasn’t your – ”

“No, I mean… I’m _sorry_. For all’a this. I know it’s got to suck.”

Stanford snorts.

“Understatement of the year, there...”

“I’m not sayin’ I _know_ where you’re comin’ from. That’d be stupid of me to assume.” Stan shifts in his seat. He rubs his neck in agitation. He’s writhing like a worm on a hook. “Look, I’m not good, with words. Believe you me, if I could punch exactly what I wanted t’say inta that thick head of yours, I woulda done so a long time ago. But that’s obviously not an option that’s going to help matters any, so…”

He rolls his shoulders as if to say ‘deal with it’, then falls silent. He’s clearly struggling to choose his next words carefully.  

“I’m _not_ leavin’ you.” Stanley pulls at the hem of his shirt, twists it around his fingers. “I know you’re tellin’ me to get lost and everythin’, but… I _can’t._ Not when you’re like this. And… to be honest?

“…I was kinda hoping I wouldn’t have to leave at all.”

 

Something must have slipped through his mask then, because Stanley immediately starts backing up, snarling, “It’s not what you think, goddammit! It’s _not_ the money, alright?! All you said was ‘please come’, so I did, and that was _it_! It’s got _nothing_ to do with – !”

Ford holds his hands up, placating. Stan forces himself to calm down.

“I lied about offin’ ya.”

“I got that when I didn’t die, yes,” Stanford says dryly.

“Even in the beginning.” Stan scrubs a hand through his hair before dropping it back into his lap. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Not unless there was absolutely no other way. Damn it, Stanford… you’re my brother. You’re _family_. I can’t fucking _kill my own family_ , are you crazy?”

“Well, congratulations. You did it. I’m alive.” Stanford drops his head back so he can look at the ceiling. “I’m alive and there’s nothing more I could possibly wish for, except… oh, maybe: being dead.”

“You _don’t_ mean – ”

“I want to die.”

He pulls his head up so he can look Stanley in the eye. His twin’s expression is… It’s hard to pinpoint. Stanley looks torn. There’s something like an unspoken understanding in his gaze, but at the same time, it’s at war. Every crease in Stanley’s face, the intensity in his stare, the jut of his chin – they’re all screaming negatives. 

 _“I want to die,”_ Ford repeats, slowly. “I’ve _wanted_ to die ever since I found out none of it meant anything. You want to know the only thing that kept me going? It was that giant ‘What If’ you presented. What If Bill _was_ wrong? What If there was a way to prevent him from possessing It? What If it _was_ human? What If I could keep It alive? What…? If…?

“Two wonderful, terrible words.”  

x x x

Stanley dares not speak.

“You don’t. You _don’t_ know where I’m coming from. You couldn’t _possibly_ imagine.” Ford laughs airily. “I gave myself to him, Stan. All of it. Freely. My heart. My mind. My body. My soul. I trusted him with _everything_ I had, and Bill betrayed me. He destroyed them all without even the slightest remorse or hesitation.

“He didn’t care. He _never_ cared. I loved him. Served him. Worshipped him, pledged, _dedicated_ even, my entire existence to him. You know what the worst thing about it is? I don’t blame him. I _can’t_ blame him. How could I – How _can_ I? He is what he is, and I was nothing but a fool for thinking otherwise. He killed me, yes… but _I_ gave him the power to do that, and I _hate_ myself for it.”      

Ford has a small sort of smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“It’s as you said. ‘Not unless there was absolutely no other way’.” He tips his head back again and lets his eyes roam the ceiling in broad, lazy sweeps. “And in the end, there wasn’t. Forty weeks, Stanley. Forty long, horrible weeks, at least half of which were spent absolutely _loathing_ what was inside me, what was _growing_ within me, with _every cell of my being and with every fiber of my soul_. But the heart does what it wants, doesn’t it? So… I kept hoping. It was the barest sliver of a chance, and still I staked my hopes on it. And again, it blew up in my face. Bill _was_ the Vessel. Without him, It was nothing but a hollow, a shell. I carried a dead dream for forty weeks without knowing it had absolutely _no chance at living at all_ until _after_ it was ‘born’.”

 

Ford starts chuckling. It’s a deep, demented sound that makes the hairs on Stan’s arms stand on end, not because of Ford’s entirely inappropriate reaction to the subject matter, but because of the _way_ he’s laughing.

Ford doesn’t _care_ anymore. He’s given up.

“You’re right, I don’t.” Stan swallows. He’s treading an _extremely_ fragile tightrope. The slightest misstep, and it’s all over. “I can’t understand it. I won’t pretend to.” 

“Good.” Ford’s eyes are dull, lifeless. “Now, please. Would you leave? I’d prefer if you weren’t implicated as a murder suspect in my suicide.”

The tightrope frays dangerously thin.

“No.”

 

Ford shrugs.

“Okay. Stay. It won’t make a difference.”

“I’ll stop you,” Stanley growls. His heart is thundering.

“I’m sure you would,” Ford agrees. “After seeing how you took out Bill, I don’t doubt your capabilities. But you’ll need to sleep. You’ll have to use the bathroom. There’re rooms in the house you don’t have access to. Or you might need to go out. Pick up some things I need for an experiment… Get some groceries. There’ll always be a window of opportunity.”

“You wouldn’t _dare,”_ Stan snaps.

“Would you prefer if I lied? Convinced you I was all better?” Ford sits up in his chair, leans forward, chin rested in his palm. His actions are… disturbingly reminiscent of Bill’s flippant attitude. Up until then Stanley had never experienced true horror. Not like this. Not even when he was facing off against Bill, not even when the Vessel had slipped wetly into his hands. “The instant I was left alone, I’d do it. But at least that way you’d have left with a clear conscience.”

“ _Stop_.” His voice cracks. “You don’t mean it – ”

“I can list at least ten different lethal concoctions off the top of my head just from mixing basic household necessities.” Ford’s gaze does not waver in the slightest. “Imagine what I could do with the _real_ chemicals which I have at my disposal. Let’s not forget that I have a complete arsenal of firearms back at the bunker. There’s also carbon dioxide poisoning, I could probably afford a cheap car from Gleeful’s… And I’m sure the various mythical creatures which I’ve studied, captured, and experimented on over the years would be more than happy to give me a taste of my own medicine. Probably wouldn’t be the quickest way to go, but… well. Whatever works.”     

 

This is it.

It’s sink or swim.

“So.” Stan’s shaking. “You wanna know where I learned how ta handle guns?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about you but the worst thing for me personally about depression was the apathy. It's one thing not to care about anything; it's another to not care about anything when there's someone right in front of you begging you to reconsider and you simply can't feel a thing. You just... can't. And it's -awful- in retrospect, but in that moment itself... you literally can't feel a damn. This chapter was me attempting to translate that feeling into writing.
> 
> I understand not everyone goes through, experiences, nor deals and/or copes with depression in the same way. I mean absolutely no offense and I apologize if so.
> 
> The next chapter is literally nothing but a giant intervention scene. So... yeah.


	15. Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some ugly truths of Stan's past come to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers/warnings:  
> \- This entire chapter is basically one giant suicide intervention. You've been warned.  
> \- gun use  
> \- questionable morals on what constitutes a person  
> \- questionale talk with reference to religion or lack thereof in general  
> \- implied prostitution  
> \- implied rape  
> \- near-death experiences  
> \- outright talk of and suicidal attempts  
> \- spoilers/references for ATOTS and Gnome Gemulets
> 
> 20-, 100-, and 300- updates as usual, but I've removed some of my usual "x x x" dividers as most of these drabbles tend to flow into each other instead of jumping to different scenes.

Ford’s disinterested mask stays in place.

“I was broke,” Stan begins. “I’d been borrowin’, and not many of those transactions were legal ones. The gist of it is: eventually my debt caught up t’me. Came in the form of a big, hairy ugly mutherfucka named Rico, and his twenty or so slicked-haired, leather-wearin’, suede-shoed goons.

“They told me if I wasn’t gonna pay them back in cash, I’d best be payin’ them back in other ways, on th’ double. It was either pull a trigger or suck a dick – _dicks_ , excuse me – and I was _not_ up for sucking dicks.”

 x x x

"You said you hadn't shot anyone." Ford has sobered. "Were you lying...?"

Stan snorts. "I said I never shot _people_."

x x x

_He's sweating through his gloves._

_The combination is ridiculously easy to crack. He staggers back to the door, his duffel stuffed with thick wads and various jewelry._

_He pauses before leaving. It'd be suspicious if he came back with full magazines._

_He stoops over the stiffened corpse. Gently, he tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear and shuts her glassy eyes._

_"I'm so sorry," Stan whispers. "Please don't haunt me."_

_He puts a bullet through the dead woman's skull. He curls her bare hand around the pristine grip._

_He tells Rico he'd made it look like a suicide._

x x x

“Before I came here, I’d only ever used a gun twice. That was the first time.”

Stan’s hands are interlaced over his knee. He continues to stare past Ford’s head, his gaze distant, somber.

“You remember how I used to try to scare Ma, back when we were kids?” Ford nods, unsure where the conversation is going. “Leapt at her every chance I could, hid in all the places I could think of. I did it so much, she eventually started expectin’ me to show up no matter where she was or what she was doin’. By the end of it, she wasn’t even startled anymore. I’d jump out of the laundry basket, fall down from the door frame, burst outta th’ oven – and all she ever had to say was ‘Hi, Stanley’.”

“Prolonged exposure,” Ford says. It’s starting to click. “She got used to it.”

“Yep.” Stan idly begins to jig his leg. Or maybe he’s trying to cover up his trembling. “Same thing wit’ me. I was officially a part of Rico’s gang, now, and they sure as hell didn’t stop at robbin’ rich old ladies. Breakin’ inta houses was easy. I started jackin’ cars. Muggin’. Got inta turf wars. Got arrested for a couple’a unrelated incidents, went to jail a few times. Let’s just say there’s a reason those soap dropping jokes exist.”

“Stan,” Ford stammers.

Stan shrugs it off. He pushes on, “Got deported. Came outta a jail in another state, and didn’t hear from Rico or his thugs for months. Wasn’t keen on goin’ back t’jail anytime soon, so I kept my nose down, did small time stuff. Then I figured, hey, that whole ‘not keen on sucking dicks’ thing? Kinda irrelevant by that point. And it was an easy way t’keep the cash flowing.

x x x

“…heh. I ever tell you about the time I had to chew my way outta the trunk of a car?”

x x x

_He’s been left for dead, he’s sure of it. Rico and his thugs had made sure they’d clearly communicated their displeasure with him for ‘running off’ on them._

_No one would find his corpse. Definitely not in an abandoned junkyard such as this. They’d made sure to pick a car that was wide out in the open. They weren’t expecting him to survive their administrations, and the afternoon sun would bake him alive if he wasn’t dead by then already._

_He screams through the duct tape over his mouth, slaps his bound fists against the floor where they’re tied behind his back. There isn’t enough space for him to kick his way out. His knees bang uselessly against the solid roof of the trunk. The entire lower half of his naked body aches and burns in ways he hadn’t realized was possible. He’s probably smearing blood all over the area._

_He’s running out of air. It’s warm and stuffy and his head feels thick. He’s damn near hyperventilating._

_He’s going to die._

No _, something inside him snaps._ Not like this. Not because of fucking _Rico._ If I die, I die how I goddamn want to. And this isn’t it. 

_He starts rubbing his face against the coarse, wiry carpet of the flooring beneath him. The material scrapes away at his already bruised skin but he keeps going, almost grinding his face into it until it’s a raw, bloodied mess. Eventually the tape begins to peel away from his mouth. After what seems like an hour, he’s able to trap the loose end of it beneath his shoulder and the floor and fully rip it off._

_He allows himself a minute or two to properly vocalize his panic. Then he rolls over onto his knees and worms closer towards the backseat._

x x x

_He headbutts it, pushes his shoulders and knees against it. It doesn’t budge._

_That’s fine._

_He can chew through polyester._

x x x

_He strips the chair down until he hits framing. Slowly, he saws his bound hands against the sharpest edge of it he can find until the rope frays apart._

_He slams his freed hands against what remains of the backseat. It collapses into the interior of the car._

_Stanley scrambles towards it. He sucks in great lungfuls of still-stale air and gashes his skin open against the metal as he squeezes himself towards salvation._

_Numb fingers fumble with the latch. The car door swings open. Stanley tumbles out onto the sand and asphalt._

_He screams until he loses his voice._

x x x

Stan scratches his chin. He seems completely unfazed.

“Second time I pulled the trigger? It was on that same night.”

x x x

_Stanley’s always been a luck and chance sort of person, so, obviously, Russian Roulette seems a fitting way to go._

_It’s not the first time he’s considered this. To Stanley, he knows it’s stupid. It’s a permanent end to temporary pains and it’s the easy way of shrugging off responsibilities. He’s never liked being called a chicken – in fact, the more he’s told not to do something, the more he_ wants _to do it._

_So after nine, almost ten years of telling himself not to do this, and especially after this morning? He feels like it’s probably time to give in to this compulsion._

_It’s easy for him, really. At least he doesn’t need to worry about leaving a will, or whom his possessions_ (what _possessions?) should go to after he dies. He has nothing of monetary value attached to his equally worthless name. No family he can actually consider, well, family, to notify. Not like they would care if they knew. Pa could go straight to hell; He had been a father to Stanley as much as Stanley had been a son to him: not at all. Ma, perhaps, god bless her soul, might be torn up about it, but she’d get over it soon enough. She’s called him, what, three, four times? In all the years he’s been away? Yeah, Ma probably isn’t going to shed more than a couple tears for him, and that’s if she even hears about him at all. Stanford…_

 _Stanford hasn’t contacted him, or made any efforts to._ At all. _As far as he’s concerned, Stanley was good as dead._

_He’s tired of hurting._

Well, fuckin’ goody, _Stan thinks, listlessly, as he loads the single bullet into the chamber._ You’re about to get your wish granted, Poindexter. One dead Stan, comin’ right up.

x x x

_The first pull is empty._

_Stan releases a loud, desperate sob as he chokes for breath. The gun is rattling in his grasp._

Four more. _He steels himself again, presses the cold muzzle against his temple, squeezes his eyes shut. He feels the tears drip off his chin and splash coldly against his arm._ Second time’s the charm.

_He pulls the trigger._

_Empty._

_He goes into hysterics. He pumps the trigger in quick succession instead, then, unable to wait: Three, two, one._

_All empty._

_He points the pistol at the TV and fires the last shot. The gun goes off._

x x x

_He flings the gun across the room._

_“I don’t want to die,” he gasps. “I don’t want to die…! God…!”_

x x x

Ford is speechless.

“I got your postcard a couple’a days after that.” There it is again. That _look,_ the one he’d seen on Fiddleford’s face, the same one that Stan’s been giving him and it’s suddenly _crystal_. It’s because they’ve _been There_. They _Know_. “Imagine if the gun had gone off. I would’a never gotten this. I don’t believe in gods, Sixer, but right then and there it was like… this is _it._ There you go. If you were waitin’ for a signal, a sign, a message… this is fuckin’ it. Go. _GO._ And so I came ta Gravity Falls.”

 

“Stanley…”

“I was _pissed_ when I showed up here.” Stan talks over him easily. “It wasn’t easy gettin’ to Oregon. Had ta do a lotta unspeakable things to get enough money for where I needed to go. It was the middle of friggin’ _winter._ Drivin’ in the snow without the proper tires? It’s a _bitch_. An’ t’rub salt in the wound, I get down here and la-dee-da, here you were, livin’ it up in your fancy house in th’ woods. Selfishly hoarding your college money, because you only cared about yourself.

“You showed up to the door and you looked… _fine._ Uglier than I remembered you, maybe, heh – but you were in one piece and you didn’t look hurt, just scruffy. I couldn’t see anythin’ immediately wrong wit’ ya. I started regrettin’ that I’d bothered comin’ down at all. And then _two more of you showed up_.”

His clones. Ford snorts a little. That must have been one hell of a greeting to have walked into…

“When you tried givin’ me that journal… I didn’t know what to think.” Stan gives an angry bark of laughter. “Ten years. Ten fuckin’ _years_ of absolute _nothin’,_ and you called me across th’ country just to send me away again. It was obvious you never gave a damn about me before you called me. You just… _assumed_ I’d be ready, at your beck and call. I wanted to hurl that stupid book in your face, beat you senseless with it. Wanted to burn the damn thing in front’a you just to piss you off.”

“But you didn’t,” Ford mumbles. “You stayed...”

“It was the way you gave me that journal.” Stan _looks_ at him. There’s nothing between them now. “Right then I had a feeling. Tell me I was wrong. I _dare_ ya.”

 

Ford sighs softly in resignation.

“You weren’t wrong,” he agrees, quietly.

Stanley glares at him, chin tilted.

“’ _Destroy the journals. Shut down the portal. Defeat Bill. Kill myself._ ’” It’s a practiced mantra. “It would be impossible to do that last one while the Thing protected itself and by extension, its host – me – I didn’t have a definite plan yet, but I was going make sure I found one. And if I didn’t, then… I’d have to make do with what actions I could take after Bill gained his physical form. One way or another, once this whole, ugly business was over... I was going to cease existing.”

Ford shrugs and chortles a little. “Bill was my entire reason for living. Without him, I… I couldn’t. I didn’t _want_ to. I don’t know how I got this far without him before I even knew about his existence, but… everything _changed_ from the moment we met. I couldn’t go back. It wasn’t possible.”   

Silence descends upon them, each taking the time to absorb this new knowledge about the other. It’s at least five minutes before Stanford speaks again.

“…I know you’re trying, Stanley.” Ford shakes his head. Stanley straightens immediately, wary, alert. “But… I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. It isn’t your responsibility to convince me. I’m just… I’m so _sick_ of it. I can’t keep _waiting_ for it to end, and that’s not even a sure thing if it will, or how long it’ll take before it does. I want it to _end,_ and I want it to end _now._ Am I selfish? Sure. Do I care? No.” He takes a deep breath. “I _don’t_ care, Stanley. I’m sorry for that. I can’t. I know I _should,_ but I just… I can’t feel anything anymore.

“I just want it over with.”

x x x

The tightrope’s snapped.

He’s clinging on to one of the halves of it.

Stanley swallows. He starts pulling himself up.

 x x x

“What if?”

Ford looks at him sharply.

“’What if’ _what?”_

“That’s just it. I don’t know.”

“…you’re doing a terrible job of convincing me if that’s what you – ”

 _“You_ don’t, either,” Stan cuts in. “No one does. No one _knows_ what will happen. Not even Bill.”

“What are you – ”

“I didn’t think I would ever have to donate blood,” Stan says. “When they told me they couldn’t use mine to save you, I lost it. What if I’d never got into debt? What if, after that first time, I’d just… turned a new leaf, did my business legally, instead’a stealing, borrowin’... I would never have landed in jail. Never would have started doin’ what I did that would make my blood unusable. I didn’t kill you once that night, Poindexter – I killed you _twice._ I’d sentenced you to death and I was gonna watch you die in front of me, and there was absolutely _nothing_ I could do to stop it from happening.”

“But Fiddleford – ”

“And _what if_ Fiddleford hadn’t been there?” Stan counters. “ _What if_ his blood type hadn’t been suitable either? _What if_ he’d never shown up to the fight with that missing symbol? _What if_ he was never convinced to help us at all? A lotta ‘what ifs’ that could be thrown around, Sixer.”

Stanford begins laughing derisively. “If you _dare_ tell me that all of that happened because _‘everything happens for a reason’_ , or because _‘it’s fate’_ , _or because that’s ‘how it has to be’ – ”_

“Things happen because of the decisions _we make,”_ Stan snaps. “And sometimes we don’t get a say in those decisions, because they came from someone else. You know what we _can_ do? _We get to choose how we wanna deal with it._

“We always have a _choice.”_

x x x

_He springs up and looks at Bill with stars in his eyes._

_“So they_ do _exist! They’re_ real!”

 _“Yeesh, kid, relax!” Bill playfully smacks Stanford on the head with his cane. Ford yelps and sits back on his heels obediently, but he’s grinning. “Of course alternate timelines exist! Alternate dimensions too. There are whole other galaxies, universes –_ multiverses _– out there! And_ billions _of other concepts that can’t be expressed with the limitations of the Earth’s languages. Humans, urgh.” He makes a tsk-ing noise. “You guys think you’re such biiiiiig shots just because you’re slightly more intelligent than monkeys, but really, you’re like fleas to us. Less than fleas, actually!”_

 _“So there_ are _others like you?” Stanford’s already scribbling madly away in his journal. He’ll have to re-write it down physically when he regains consciousness, of course, so it’s really just for show – but his fervor is amusing to watch. “How many_ are _there? What do they_ look _like?_ Do you get along? Where are they?”

_“What are we playing?” Bill snorts. “Twenty Questions?”_

_“C’mon, Bill!” Stanford’s practically vibrating in place. “Tell me! I can handle it.”_

“Can you?” _Bill asks, his voice growing distorted, and Stanford falters in his conviction. But only for the briefest of moments._

“Yes,” _Stanford declares loudly. It’s almost a challenge as he meets Bill’s unwavering judgment. “I want to. I_ have _to! I’ve been looking for answers to these_ my whole life!”

 _“And what do you have to give in_ exchange _for these answers?”_

_“Anything,” Stanford answers immediately._

_“Annnnything?” Bill presses._

“Anything!”

_Bill chuckles. He extends his hand. Bright blue flames roar up the length of it._

_“Then just let me into your mind, Stanford!”_

_“Please.” Stanford practically jumps up to shake it. The flames flare wildly as their grasps connect. “Call me a_ friend.”

x x x

Stanford’s trembling in his seat. He’s wrapped his arms around himself and pulled as far away from Stanley as he can manage.

He’s very close. But it isn’t over.

Stan edges carefully towards his brother. Ford’s eyes dart up, then away. It’s clear he’s terrified.

“What do you want?” Ford asks suddenly.

“What do _I_ want?” Stan echoes.

 _“Why_ are you doing this?” Ford looks at him and Stan thinks of cornered animals and frightened strays. “It’s as you said. I never gave a damn about you. I _never_ asked, never bothered to find out how you were doing. But you came just because I asked you to; you did _so_ much – you did _more_ than was asked of you. Even now, you’re _still_ doing it! Even though I’ve done _nothing_ in kind for you! So _what_ is it, Stan? _What do you want from me?!_ ” He voice rises to nearly a scream, “ _Why the_ hell _do you care?!”_

And suddenly Stan gets it. He understands why Stanford had shoved money at him and asked him to leave. Why it’d constantly felt like he’d been on a pair of scales, with his brother at the other end of it.

“Because… Because you’re _family.”_ He doesn’t know what else to say or how else to put it into words. “It’s not… it’s not a _deal,_ Poindexter. You don’t owe me. It goes against my creed when I say this, trust me –and you’re the _only_ exception to this rule, so far – but I ain’t doin’ any of this because I’m _expectin’_ somethin’ in return. ...It’s not conditioner.”

Stan tentatively reaches out to place a hand on his brother’s shoulder. When Stanford doesn’t flinch or pull away he puts both arms around the other and simply holds him together while he breaks.

x x x

_“’Conditional.’”_

Stan pulls away. “What?”

“’Conditional.’” Ford’s shaking with laughter. _“Conditioner_ is for _hair,_ Stanley.”

“Oh, _fuck you,”_ he groans.

x x x

It’s the first step out of many on a long, arduous climb to nowhere. It’s not much, but it’s something.

They’re not alone. Not anymore, not physically; and if they are, then not emotionally. They bury fresh buds along the edges of the rift between them, watch as the plants sprout and entwine to form a living, breathing bridge that covers up the expanse of the gap. They cross the bridge and they smile genuinely at each other for the first in a very long time.

Sometimes they damage the bridge. Sometimes they forget to water it. But they always make sure they come together to pull off the dead leaves and rotting branches, and transfer grafts that have a hope of survival.

They make sure the bridge keeps growing. They make sure it stays alive.

He builds himself a network, once he’s ready to step out of his shell. Stanley does, too. He teaches science and physics at the local high school while Stanley does various odd jobs around the town. 

The hurt from Bill lingers, like a disease, like a plague. It’s harder to deal with on some days than others. There are days where he wakes up completely and surprisingly fine, and then there are days where he gets too close to throwing himself off the edge again, and he has to scream for Stanley to help before he gives in to it. It won’t be leaving any time soon, possibly not ever, and Stanford knows it. He doesn’t like it. Still, he holds on to the belief, the knowledge that he _can_ deal with it and that he _won’t_ let it consume him.

He gives himself time. It seems to be taking forever to scab, but healing has never been an immediate process.

He accepts this.   

x x x

Years pass.

They get the call around four in the morning.

Stanley’s a ball of nervous excitement. Stanford isn’t faring much better, but he’s nervous for entirely different reasons. He offers to drive when Stanley nearly lands them in a ditch for the third time in less than a half hour.

“You okay?” Stan asks him again, concerned, just before they step through the double doors.

He’s clammy. Nauseous. The last time he’d been in a hospital…

He shakes his head. _No._ This is _not_ the same thing. This is a _good_ thing. It’s a _happy_ occasion. He’s not going to let his past experiences ruin it. Not for him, not for Stanley. Not for the new parents waiting expectantly in the room before them.

He pushes a smile onto his face. “Let’s do it.”

Stan squeezes his shoulder briefly, before leading the way.

Stanford hasn’t seen Shermie in forever. It’s so different, seeing him in the flesh and watching him speak, as compared to simply hearing his voice come out of a phone. Stan greets their youngest sibling boisterously, like they’re old pals (and they are _all_ old men at this point, really), and explodes into louder exclamations when spots his nephew and niece-in-law.

Everyone shushes him immediately, although no one stops grinning.  Stanford gives the back of his twin’s head a hard whack to make up for his inconsiderateness. Stan curses him out. Shermie tells his older brother to mind his damn language, and everyone laughs.    

They’re fraternal twins. One girl, and one boy. Their mother beams tiredly down at them with an almost suffocating amount of affection.

The father notices Stanford staring. He asks, smiling, “Would you like to hold them?” 

“What?” Stanford says, startled. “Oh, I’m – ”

They’re in his arms before he can say no.

x x x

Stanley’s jovial expression swiftly turns aghast.

Stanford’s frozen in place, unmoving. He stares back at Stanley with the same look of trapped helplessness.

The others in the room are blissfully unaware of his internal crisis. Their mother’s still talking, laughing with relief as she recounts her experience. Something about horrible back labor and the umbilical cord having wrapped around her son’s neck, causing him to come out blue.

He picks up on the word ‘blue’ and before he can stop himself he’s seeing It in his mind all over again. Six blood-stained fingernails. Three closed eyes. The babies in his arms feel suddenly heavier. There’s a phantom twist and pull inside his guts, like bubbles, like movement, and…

He’s being maneuvered into a chair. Stanley’s saying something to him, or to the others, Stanford isn’t sure, but his brother’s voice has gone into that high, nervous pitch that Stanley only makes when he’s doing a bad job of lying.

 _Is he alright_ , he hears the mother ask, worriedly.

 _No_ , he thinks frantically. He can feel the scream building up inside of him. He wasn’t prepared for this. He’s not _ready._ He can’t break down now, not like this, _not in front of –_

Something clutches feebly at the front of his shirt.

Stanford, against his better reasoning, looks down. The babies in his arms are ruddy, healthy; small and harmless. They’re swathed in the stereotypical colors: pale blue for the boy, light pink for the girl.

The girl blinks up at him and makes another involuntary, uncoordinated grab at his chest. The boy just continues to stare curiously, almost as if studying him.

 He feels his unease suddenly evaporate – disappear away into _nothing._  

“Stanford?” Stanley’s shaking his shoulder. _“Stanford,_ you alright?!”

“…I’m fine.” He smiles down at the twins. “Hey, there.”

x x x

He’d been stunned into silence by their perfection. That’s what he tells them. He apologizes for giving them a scare and everyone laughs and the atmosphere bounces right back to being light-hearted and happy, but he knows Stanley’s still watching him a little more closely than he should.

Stanley and Shermie actually end up fighting over who gets to hold the twins next. Stanley makes a great show of running off with the babies while Shermie chases him down the hospital corridors, and Mrs Pines laughs so hard at their antics that she’s in pain all over again.

“No, everything’s fine, _thank you_ ,” his nephew assures the staff. “Stan’s family, he was just horsing around.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t dream of _kidnapping_ them,” Stan huffs. Then he leers at Shermie, where they’re nestled securely in the younger brother’s arms. “…Probably. …I’m joking. _I’m joking!_ I’m just kidding, oh my _god,_ you people have no sense of humor – ”

It’s nearly noon by the time they bid the happy but exhausted couple farewell. They exchange goodbyes, and Shermie slaps them on the back and reminds them to keep in touch.

“I want those little gremlins in Gravity Falls once they’re old enough to take the bus,” Stanley calls as they exit. Their parents laugh appreciatively, and Stanford watches them with a twinge of painful nostalgia, as they lean in towards each other for a kiss before the double doors close.

They ride the lift down in silence. They walk up to the Stanmobile.

Stanford stops.

“I don’t think I can drive.” Fuck, he’s quavering. “Do you think – could you – ?” 

Stan shrugs. “Of course.”

They get into the car. Stanley turns the key in the ignition and puts on the radio and waits until Stanford’s sobs recede before he drives them home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeskip for the next, and last and final chapter. Hopefully it goes up within the next week or two.


	16. Don't Know Where, Don't Know When

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirty years have passed since the incident with the Vessel. 
> 
> Bill initiates Weirdmageddon, and Stanford confronts Bill for the final time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, heavy spoilers for Weirdmageddon. Also, lots of canon references and canon divergence in general - this is an AU, after all - but you knew that already. Right? 
> 
> Slight body horror and violence.
> 
> I'll add the rest of the notes for after the end, but... here it is. The final countdo -- installment. I'll leave myself open to criticism and judgement.

_“’The Murder Hut’,” he intones._

_Stanley nods eagerly. “The Murder Hut.”_

_“No.”_

_Stanford tries to head off. He’s stopped when Stanley physically blocks the corridor and actually whines at him._

_“Well, why not? The way I see it, it gives you a perfectly good reason for everyone to immediately invalidate what you say.”_

_“That_ is _the problem,” Ford deadpans._

_He tries to sidestep his brother again and fails as Stanley moves with him._

_“_ C’mon _, Poindexter.” Stan gives him an earnest, pleading look. He’s obviously given at least_ some _thought to this, so Ford sighs and crosses his arms, fingers tapping impatiently, and Stan continues, “Gravity Falls is a small town, y’know? Word gets ‘round quicker than rabbits can multiply, an’ it’s rarely ever accurate. The rumors about the ‘murder’ in the basement from five years ago don’t help. And you teach at a school fulla annoying, nosy, persistent teenagers who keep sneaking around the area at night tryin’ ta – ” Stanley makes air quotes with his fingers and rolls his eyes, “ – ‘solve the mystery’, in order to show off in front’a the chicks.”_

_Stanford frowns. “Your point?”_

_Stan grins. “They wanna ’look for clues’ in here? We’ll turn the_ whole thing _into a cheesy Summerween-slash-Halloween attraction! Load it up with plastic skeletons in the walls and fake blood all over the steps. What’s that? There’s_ nothin’ _scary about this decrepit old house? This place is_ lame? _Boom! The ‘mystery’ is solved, an’ people stop tryin’a pry. Everything they’ll ever hear about regarding blood being spilt in this house is just local legend: drummed up by guys like me, to earn quick bucks from guys like them. You get the idea. After all, if ya wanna hide a tree – ”_

 _“ – you use a forest,” Stanford breathes. “Stanley, that’s_ genius. _”_

x x x

_It starts out as most new establishments do: unheard of and completely dead. (“Heh. Dead. Murder Hut. Get it?”) Ford places flyers all over his school a week prior and mentions it at least twice every lecture. Stan rounds up his buddies at Daniel “Manly Dan” Corduroy’s construction site, and chats it up with the folks who stop in at “Lazy” Susan Wentworth’s diner._

_Summerween rolls around, and The Murder Hut goes live._

_It’s actually a hit until the thrills turn to genuine fears._

_“ – demon.” The kid’s face is white. Ford’s heart stops. “That man – h-he’s a_ demon _…! RUN!”_

x x x

_Ford practically leaps down the entire flight of stairs leading into the basement, where Stan would have taken his tour groups._

I _knew_ it _, he thinks, teeth gritted. His hand automatically flies to the specialized taser-gun hidden in his coat, the one he’s constantly kept on him ever since they’d defeated Bill._ How could I have been so stupid?! How could I not have seen, not have _realized_ that this would – ?!

_He slams through the entrance to the basement, shoulders heaving. He frantically scans the area. If Bill had possessed Stan he would have to –_

_“PREPARE TO MEET YOUR MAKER!”_

_Ford whirls on Bill, livid. The gun whines as it charges up and –_

_“Whoa – don’t!_ DON’T SHOOT!! _CRIPES!” Stan_ literally _jumps several feet into the air, and Ford gapes. “It’s Summerween, man! Can’t a kid have a little fun?!”_

_The blue-tinged glow enveloping him, the complete absence of pupils in Stan’s eyes, and the slowly materializing form of the young boy holding his brother up by the scruff of his neck… it’s a Category Three Ghost. Ford sinks back against the wall and shakily lowers his gun, its charge dying._

_“Just a ghost,” he mutters. “Just a stupid_ ghost _...!”_

 _“I’m dead, not deaf, you know,” it simpers. It drops Stan unceremoniously to the ground and floats back out through one of the walls, grumbling bitterly, “Some thanks I get for making your attraction a little more_ lively _…!”_

_Stan regains consciousness roughly a minute later. He spends another ten trying to calm his twin down._

_“Stanford, breathe. Everything's okay.”_

_“I should be_ past _this.” Ford draws a trembling hand down his face. “The paranoia, the fear, the irrationality of it…!”_

_“Well, I’m still alive,” Stan jokes. He punches his brother in the shoulder. “It’s progress…? One step at a time.”_

x x x

The incident with the Vessel had deeply scarred him, much more than physically, left him understandably traumatized in various aspects. For the first year or two, Stanford had slept no easier than he did in the months before. Finding the willpower to crawl out of bed was the equivalent of scaling a vertical cliff. Eating turned into a manual chore which required conscious effort he rarely had.

Having Stanley back in his life helped (and it seemed the same for Stan with Ford, as well), but… there was still a limit to how much his brother could do for him. When he’d halted his research in Gravity Falls, so did his funding, and with Stanford barely functioning as it was, the responsibility of breadwinner had nowhere else to land but heavily on the other twin.

Stanley didn’t mind – he operated better outside than in and when he was keeping active rather than stewing over the thoughts ruminating in his head – but he worried about having to leave the other alone with _his_.

To keep himself distracted Stanford turned what little interest he had left with life to things he’d once considered worthless with how little knowledge they imparted: tabloids, comics, games; magazines, radio… even the meaningless drivel broadcast on the television. He shrunk away from anything to do with science and the supernatural, and ignored stoutly the nagging inevitability that Bill would one day return.

It had been the end of a dreary work week, and Stan had wanted "at least one round in that fancy new arcade shop that I've been hearin' about". Ford hadn't paid any attention to the game until one of the characters shouted, overly enthused:

_"You can hide... But you CANNOT HIDE!"_

To date, it remains one of the soundest advice he has ever heard.

x x x

_Stan screeches._

_“I dunno what I did but – my guy just p-punched his way outta the screen! …YES, GODDAMMIT,_ LITERALLY _!!”_

x x x

_Other than that unfortunate mishap, The Murder Hut proves wildly successful… with unintended side effects._

_“It’s so bad that they want_ more _!” Stan paces madly in a tight, short line. “But Halloween isn’t until the end’a_ October _! That’s four months of potential profits, gone!_ Four! MONTHS! _”_

 _“Calm down,” Ford smirks. He’s just only_ glimpsing _what poor Fiddleford must have had to put up with, when it was_ Ford _who'd gotten into one of these Moods. It’s certainly refreshing to see Stan in this light, actually eager over his work instead of just dully completing it like… well,_ work _. Then again, it did involve money, and Stan rarely said no to that. Not to mention Stan practically had full reign of the event when it went live, and it was obvious he loved making up tales to ensnare his audience (sometimes as many as multiple different stories for the same attraction), making groan-worthy puns at every opportunity, and the attention he’d received as he’d paraded around in his thrift-store Dracula getup and glow-in-the-dark rubber fangs. “Couldn’t you simply showcase something else? Perhaps the attractions could change according to the seasonal holidays…?”_

 _Stan shakes his head, determined. “That’d leave the periods between holidays completely dead. An’ festive seasons are somethin’ almost every Tom, Dick an’ Harry can pull off. No. If we wanna bring ‘em in, it’s gotta be_ different _. Somethin’_ new _. Somethin’ that ya can’t find anywhere else. Somethin’_ crazy _.”_

_Stan pauses. He leans forward and squints comically at something behind Ford._

_“Like_ that _thing.”_

 _Ford turns. There is…_ something _… which looks like a naked little man… which had_ not _been in their living room a minute ago. It’s fervently gnawing on the leftover Summerween candy that’s been haphazardly piled onto their side table._

 _“…_ huh _,” Ford muses. “Yeah, that could work.”_

x x x

_Stanford had allowed himself time to re-acclimatize, easing back into the field with non-threatening, immobile life forms (Percepshrooms, size-changing crystals), gradually working his way up the mythological hierarchy until the monster in the resident lake actually started wagging its tail once it recognized him._

_With the Murder Hut (now renamed the "Mystery Shack", to accommodate the presence of their added oddities) open all season, Stanley’s business actually begins to pick up. He resigns from his miscellaneous odd jobs in order to fully dedicate his time to being the Shack’s tour guide: the appropriately named Mr Mystery. The brothers make sure the displays are never the same, so that each batch of tourists always had a different experience to take away, and if there are legitimate magical artifacts mixed in with the phonies, no one is the wiser. Ford ensures that any real goods merchandised (toadstones, fairy dust, giant vampire bat droppings) are harmless to their customers, of course, and that their very real existence is inconspicuous enough to be able to be explained away with a shrug and a hand wave._

_The Mystery Shack, however, serves a second purpose besides a means of income for the twins. On Sundays, when the Shack is closed for the day, the brothers venture out across Gravity Falls together. They leave before dawn and don’t return until well past midnight. No one ever really catches where they disappear to or what they do during that time; the brothers certainly don’t refute the incentive rumors of them being salesmen by day and supernatural hunters by night. But week by week, they begin establishing their presence in the magical community._

_“I may need your help one day,” Ford tells Them, once they’ve gained Their respect and established a rapport. “It concerns the being named Bill Cipher.”_

x x x

Once every year, after the sun rises, but before Stan begins his tours, Ford makes his way down to a certain grove of trees in the forest behind their house. Today is that day.

Stan waves him on. Ford knows Stan won’t bring up the subject unless he does. For that… he’s grateful.

He runs his fingers gently along the bark, tracing the notches there silently, even though he already knows their number.  He adds to them the thirtieth marker. 

The customary pink carnation is laid against the lichen-covered headstone. Then he turns and walks back towards the Mystery Shack.  

x x x

True to their word, the Pines’ parents chuck their children up to Gravity Falls to stay for the summer of twenty-twelve. It would be the first time both sets of twins officially met each other.

The bus pulls up to the Mystery Shack and both brothers straighten immediately, trying to look like they haven’t been waiting nervously for the better part of an hour. An extremely exuberant boy in a cap and vest, and a very grumpy girl in a bright pink sweater (with skirt to match), hoodie tightly drawn about her face, bounce and trudge out of the vehicle respectively. Their heavy luggage thumps down the steps as they drag it behind them.

The bus roars off in a cloud of smoke and dust. The twins – all four of them – stare expectantly at each other.  

Stan slowly raises an index finger and silently alternates it between the younger twins. His finger lands on the boy.

“Mabel,” Stan says, before pointing at the deeply scowling girl, “and Dipper. Right?”

The "boy" grins, revealing braces, and immediately tugs the cap off. Long, chestnut-brown hair easily cascades over her shoulders.

“Ya got me!”

“I _told_ you this was stupid!” The "girl" angrily kicks off the offending skirt, tugging the sweater over his head. His face is starting to rival the yarn in terms of brightness. “We’re _fraternal_ twins, Mabel, not _identical!_ Any dummy would be able to tell the difference!”

“That _was_ a pretty convincing switch, actually.” Ford cracks a small smile at the boy’s embarrassment, scratching his chin. It certainly was an… _interesting_ first impression. “I suppose it would have been harder to tell, if ‘Mabel’ had been less, ah… sullen.”

“Hah! _Told_ ya, it’s not just about appearances!”

“…and, well. If ‘Dipper’ had a tad more serious.”

 _“HAH!”_ Dipper crows.

x x x

It isn’t hard to like them. Mabel is loud and charming, but also deviously bright. Dipper is her opposite, but in all the right ways: thoughtful, a little reserved, but also insatiably curious. The kids squabble and poke fun at each other like most siblings do, but it’s clear they also share a healthy camaraderie with each other.

Ford and Stan exchange silent, meaningful glances with each other when Mabel casually questions how the brothers have tolerated each other for as long as they have. They choose to sidestep the question, Stan quickly distracting them with another outrageously embellished tale of his past heroics.

The brothers don’t play favorites but Stan does takes to Mabel nearly instantly, promising to train her to be the best con-woman the world’s ever seen. And the moment Ford finds out that Dipper is deeply interested in the matters of the supernatural… they basically become neigh impossible to separate.

 _“You’re the author!”_ Dipper screeches at him excitedly, once he learns, “the one who wrote about Gravity Falls’ Natural Law of Weirdness Magnetism!”

Ford nearly matches him in pitch. “You’ve _read_ my publication?!”

“Dude, I’ve read _all_ of your stuff!” Dipper ’s almost frothing at the mouth. “Your thesis about anormalies… the findings theorizing that a UFO landed _here_ in Gravity Falls, Oregon! I just… didn’t _realize_ it was _YOU!_ I can’t believe – ! A _ll this time_ – I never made that connection – ! Ohh, I think I’m gonna throw up…!”

“There’re enough questionable stains on the floorboards of this house already,” Stan yells from the floor below them.

“Let me be your apprentice.” Dipper looks up at him pleadingly, completely trusting, and the unwanted flashback to his own youth knocks Stanford’s breath out of him like an unpleasant blow of solid ice. “Please, I’ll do anything! _Anything!”_

x x x

“You’ll _really_ let me borrow these until the end of the summer?!”

Dipper’s so awestruck, so _honored_ , that Ford can practically see the stars flying off of him. He chuckles and gives his great nephew’s cap a playful tip.

“As long as you promise to take good care of them, and to use their knowledge only in self-defense.”

“An’ don’t try goin’ off explorin’ unknown places, or catchin’ weird monsters on your own.” Stan comes up behind them, leaning against the door frame. He takes a pointed sip from his can of Pitt Cola as he frowns down at the duo. “It might not look it, but this town is _crazy_. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if you got hurt on our watch.”

“If there’s _anything_ that you and Mabel want to do or see in Gravity Falls, don’t hesitate to come to us.” Ford gives his nephew’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, smiling, before he straightens slowly, joints popping. “We’d be more than happy to come along with you.”

Stan grunts his affirmation.

“Best. Grunkles. _Ever_ ,” Dipper breathes. “Thanks, Grunkle Stan! Thank you, Great Uncle Ford!!”

The brothers watch fondly as the boy sprints up the stairs to the attic two at a time, grinning madly, Ford’s weathered journals hugged tightly to his chest. They hear both brother and sister squeal excitedly at each other for a few seconds before their door shuts again, and the house falls silent in now-unusual quietude.     

“Are you sure that was that okay?” Stan asks, solemn. He hasn’t taken his eyes off the stairs. 

“I’ve removed the more personal records from them. Don’t worry.” Ford pushes his hands into his pockets and rocks back onto his heels, exhaling inaudibly. “Besides… I’d rather they be armed _with_ the proper knowledge than without.”

x x x

Together, the brothers keep a watchful eye on the children, ready to take up arms at the slightest threat to their niblings’ safety. The children don’t suspect a thing, of course – they’re both too engrossed with the thrill of adventure and discovery, and neither man has been obvious about their near-constant vigilance.

The anxiousness and arrogance of Ford’s youth has mellowed out – melted down and petered away, forged anew to leave a composed, sturdy confidence that’s been weathered by age, but strengthened with wisdom and experience. He’s cautious, but he isn’t paranoid; he’s alert, but he maintains his composure. He’s no longer naïve, but still, he recognizes the pure, untainted innocence of childhood in the younger twins. He’ll help them to stay it for as long as he can.  

He expects, but he doesn’t assume. He’s done – is still doing – all that he can to be ready.

Dipper comes up to them one afternoon, complaining about the mosquitoes leaving strange bite marks on his arm. Stan inhales sharply as he reads what’s been spelt across the boy’s arm in red, taunting welts:

DID YOU MISS ME?

“ _Bill Cipher_.” The words leave Stan in an angry hiss. He casts a significant glance at his twin.

“Wait, the triangle guy?” Mabel frowns, as Dipper winces and rubs at his arm. “I thought the journals said he’d been defeated!”

Ford finds himself still mildly surprised by the message, but also, strangely calm. He’d always known that he would have to face Bill again eventually; it’s an event he’s been waiting to happen for his entire life. And now that it’s finally here…

“What now?” Stan asks him later that night, after the children are fast asleep in their beds. “What do we do?”

“Nothing.” Stanford finds that he isn’t afraid. “We simply wait.”

x x x

Ford isn’t shocked, weeks later, when a hole to Bill’s dimension rends the sky apart.

The Shack’s already Bill-proofed. They quickly usher in any survivors, both human and not, who’ve escaped being turned to stone or captured. Dipper and Mabel bring in two rather traumatized children who they angrily insist are _not_ their friends: a blond girl still dressed inexplicably fashionably despite the current circumstances, and a pale, pudgy little boy whose hairstyle looks more suited for the seventeenth century.   

“I know about Bill.” They flinch, startled, and stare at Stanford, clearly afraid. “Tell me what you’d agreed to do.”

x x x

The girl’s name is Pacifica Elise Northwest. She is the sole heir to the snobbish Northwest family’s massive fortune, including the Northwest Research Facilities, established around twelve years ago and dedicated solely to the study of “space exploration”.

The boy’s name is Gideon Charles Gleeful, son of the same Bud Gleeful who runs the town’s car dealership. Ford’s seen his face on the television before – he’s the annoying, pompous child star and resident psychic from the Tent of Telepathy. Stan’s had some competition with the Tent for tourist numbers in recent years, but not enough to warrant any actual rivalry.

The children themselves hadn’t made any deals – their _parents_ did. Preston Northwest had been embarrassed to admit he was unable to produce a heir to the family name. He’d wanted a son, but he hadn’t specified a gender. Pacifica might have been born a Northwest, but she was treated by her family the same way they treated their possessions: like an expensive, but sentimentally worthless object.   

Bud Gleeful was in heavy debt, and the scant number of cars he sold weren’t cutting it. Gideon had woken up one morning with a whisper inside his head that told him everything he’d never wanted to know about anything and anyone, and Bud had zeroed in on his son’s unexplained talents and forced him into the spotlight for profit.

Dipper and Mabel are completely gutted by this revelation. They immediately apologize to both of their former antagonists and ask to bury the hatchet. The latter look surprised, but incredibly grateful, for the forgiveness and the acceptance.

Ford curses himself for not having paid closer attention to the local happenings – the boy’s 99.9% accuracy rate, and the Northwests having invested in non-materialistic things should have been red flags. But now… at least he knows. 

x x x

“McGucket residence. …Yep, hang on. DAAAD?!”

“Fiddleford speaking. …Stanford, hey! …yes, of course I remember. … _Absolutely_. I’ll be right there.”

x x x

Bill’s constructed himself a “Fearamid”, a humongous triangular castle spanning several football fields, out of what looks like the inkiest obsidian that’s ever existed. It drifts miles above them, a menacing silhouette against the heavy wash of orange that’s bled throughout the sky, hovering beneath the seething X-shaped rip in their dimension. 

Fiddleford uses his now-renowned skills to transform the Mystery Shack into a mobile fortress. He grins toothily at Stanford and throws him a salute.

Ford looks around. The other nine living symbols, along with the rest of the survivors, look fiercely determined.

“Let’s take the fight to him!”

x x x

Together, the four Pines twins spearhead the fight as they storm the palace. Between Ford’s specialized equipment, Fiddleford’s various weapons and defenses, and the vast assortment of mythical beings they’ve formed unlikely alliances with, their enemies, though otherworldly, are swiftly defeated.

They free the captured residents of Gravity Falls where they’ve been literally petrified and coalesced into a singular throne-like structure. The sadistic formation is obviously Bill Cipher’s handiwork, but he’s nowhere to be found.

Preston and Bud are both cowering and sniveling on the floor in abject terror when the Pines family finally locate them.

“He’s waiting,” Bud blubbers.

x x x

 _“’Waiting’?”_ Dipper echoes, baffled, but no one answers.

They’re reached the top-most level of the Fearamid, where it opens up into a flat, glassy plane. The atmosphere here is thin, nearly freezing, and it’s disorienting to look down at Gravity Falls from this high up. 

Most of the rebellion had stayed behind on the lower levels to help the freed residents back to safety. The only living souls present on this floor are Preston, Bud, both Pines twins, and the six other representatives needed to ensure Bill’s defeat. 

A smaller, separated pyramid, about the size of the Mystery Shack’s living room, spins languidly above them. It’s at least ten feet above their heads. There’re no staircases or doors present – nothing that indicates it is even accessible to begin with.

They form a circle of people beneath the pyramid and link hands. The pyramid flares livid white-blue in response.

A singular eye peels open in the center of its base. It rolls around wildly, taking each of them in, before fixing its bloodshot gaze on Ford.

The floor beneath Ford’s feet _ripples_ before it’s suddenly swallowing him like quicksand. The others yell, rushing to try and help him up, but Ford halts them.

 _“Don’t break the circle!”_ He quickly forces the people who had been on either side of him – Gideon and Pacifica – to join hands, so that the circle contains him inside it, even as he continues sinking in up to his neck. “No matter what happens, _don’t break the chain!_ Not until – ”

The floor closes smoothly over his head and turns solid once more. The others scream, horrified.

“You heard him!” Stan snaps, taking charge. He tightens his grip on the hands inside his own. “As long as the circle keeps glowin’, we’ll be fine! Don’t – let – go!”

 x x x

“We meet again.”

It’s Bill, of course. 

He gives Ford a contemptuous once-over before grimacing. 

“...my _god_ , you got fat.”

x x x

Stanford hits the floor. He rolls. He leaps up. He reaches inside his coat for his weapon and –

 – and he has nothing. He’s completely unarmed.

Bill laughs at him. “You didn’t actually think I _wouldn’t_ disarm you before I let you anywhere near my – ”

He’s cut off as Stanford bodily tackles and slams him to the ground.

“Seriously?” Bill snaps, irritated. “Already?! I didn’t even get a chance to – Ow! Hey! CUT THAT OUT!”

 _“Stay away from my family,”_ Stanford says. “You have _no_ dominion in our world.”

He continues pressing both thumbs into Bill’s eye until it sprays.

x x x

He annihilates Bill. Over and over, Stanford rips him apart and repeatedly deconstructs him, brick by brick. But the other simply keeps reassembling himself instantaneously.

“You might have trapped me with that little fairy ring of yours, brainiac, but in this dimension, with this form, I’m unstoppable!” Ford tears Bill’s eye out and a new one begins pushing up through the thick, murky soup left behind in the socket almost immediately, twitching and writhing as it rapidly sprouts, like a grotesque weed. Ford yanks it out again as soon as he can grasp it. “You can’t destroy me! I am invincible! I AM ALL POWERFUL!”

Ford keeps going. “That’s what you _want_ to make me believe.”

He grabs Bill’s sides and forcefully rends him in half. His bricks separate cleanly, like nails from their finger beds, red rivulets sluicing across the creases before sickeningly squelching back together. Stanford just keeps tearing through each new restoration, silent, relentless, three decades’ worth of suppressed vengeance finally unleashed.

Bill’s regeneration eventually begins to slow.

The demon finally gives up on trying to piece himself back together. His severed, imploded eye stares emotionlessly up at Stanford, who’s now panting raggedly over Bill’s dismembered body where it lies scattered in several ragged pieces across the void they’re in.

“You figured it out.” It isn’t a question.

“Of course.” Ford sits back on his heels and coughs. He glares back at the unblinking eyeball. “It was a matter of depleting your vast reserve of energy until you ran out faster than you could restore it. It’s one of the drawbacks of having a corporeal form. _Anything_ with a physical form is bound to have its limitations, even those with regenerative abilities.”

“Yeeep,” Bill says. He sounds annoyed. “Wish I’d realized that about a trillion years sooner.”

 

They don’t speak for a long time.

“I’m guessing you’ve only got one chance left at regenerating before I actually do manage to destroy you,” Stanford says.

“Yep,” Bill repeats. He sounds almost sulky. “I’ll get around to it, yeesh. Only so much stalling I can do before I get really bored with the status quo.”

Ford scoffs loudly. “So. That’s _it?_ After all those long years of waiting, after _finally_ attaining physical form… you wish you _hadn’t?_ ”

“You know what they say.” Bill pulls enough of himself together to be able to prop his “chin” in his palm before rolling what remains of his eye. “’Forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest’, ‘grass is always greener on the other side’… yadda yadda. But hey! I’m not complaining. It sucks, sure, but, well. Now at least I know for it _definitely_ sucks. Pretty worth it, if you ask me!”

“Spoken like a true sore loser.”

Bill huffs. “Playing the game was _so_ much more fun than actually _beating_ the game.”

“A game.” He can’t say he’s surprised, but still. It’s horrible to hear it, to have it confirmed. “That’s all this ever was to you.”

Bill “shrugs” (two random bricks lift an inch off the floor before falling back limply).

“Just being honest. Tends to happen when you enter that near-death state. The filters just… poof.”

But Bill doesn’t sound afraid, or angry, or even bitter. In fact, he seems to be taking his “death” a little too well. Stanford stiffens immediately, sensing a ruse, but Bill waves him off (with half an arm). “Relax, IQ. Just wanted to have a little chat with ya.”

“Really.” Stanford doesn’t drop his guard.  “’Just’ a ‘chat’.”

“Wanted to interact with my high scorer before I quit.” Bill grins at him. “You’re _still_ my favorite.”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You were the best run I’ve had out of this game, Sixer!” Bill starts gathering the remnants of himself together, organizing them into a crude, bloody graph chart to illustrate his point. “The previous Chosen, like I told you – they all failed me. Never got further than the first stages with them. But you, oh – SO close. It was so much _fun_ playing with you!” Bill stacks the bricks of one graph much taller than the rest. “I’d never achieved such heights. When I nearly got all the way to the end-game with you I was so excited. But it didn’t happen.” He scowls at the memory. “I was furious when you and that dumb brother of yours kicked me out of the plane. It was hard enough establishing a connection to this dimension in the first place, and now I had to wait for chance to let me back in all over again. Thankfully, the humans of Earth are pretty stupid, greedy things.”

“Preston Northwest,” Ford mumbles.

“’Desperate times call for desperate measures,’ as they say.” Bill snorts. “The fool found the incantation scribbled down in one of his ancestor’s diaries – the same one who, quote-unquote, ‘founded’ Gravity Falls, with my help, might I add. He summoned me, we shook hands, and boom. He got a heir, and I got my ticket to rebuilding the portal that would transcend our dimensions. MUCH better and cleaner than trying to incubate a living vessel! But really tedious and dreary, too. They were barely half as smart as you were –  it took them _twelve years_ to figure out what you did in one! And such bland individuals, the lot of them… trying to mess with them got dull real quick. I was sooooo _boooored_.”

x x x

“What about Gleeful?”

“Oh, him? I just thought it’d be funny to see him pimp out his boy, that’s all.”

x x x

It reminds Stanford of the time Bill had gone into detail about his plans right before he’d restarted the portal in the basement. Then, he’d been forced to listen, even though he hadn’t wanted to, as Bill had gloated lengthily and prematurely about his supposed victory.

This is different. He no longer poses a threat to Stanford in his current form, but he’s not afraid of Stanford, either. Bill’s still running his mouth (or, well, his words), almost conversationally, in the same breezy, carefree lilt that Stanford hasn’t heard in over thirty years.

It’s strange, how this feels almost welcome. Even at the peak of their “relationship”, there’d always been an obvious imbalance between them, the scales perpetually tipped in Bill’s favor. And Stanford had been fine with that imbalance until he’d learnt that the scales weren’t tipped at all, but permanently rigged: set up such that Bill had everything to gain, and Stanford, everything to lose.    

Maybe it’s because he’s had such a long time to reflect on it. Maybe it’s because Bill will never pose a threat to him or his family again. But talking to Bill, like this, he feels… equal.

There’s something else. It’s so small, he’d barely noticed it. It isn’t anger, nor hate; neither is it regret. But it feels a little something like an old, tired sadness; a vestigial ache from a longing for what could have been but never was.

“What were we, Bill?” Ford gazes at him. “…what _are_ we?”

“Are you trying to indirectly ask me if I’ve ever really loved you?”

“No,” Ford says, and he means it. He continues, factually, “I know you didn’t. You _couldn’t_. You never had, and will never have, love for anything or anyone but yourself. Even so… I wouldn’t really call that ‘love’.”

 

Bill _laughs_.

Ford startles. He hadn’t had anything to compare it to before now, but this… He’s sure of it. It’s the first time Bill’s _actually_ laughed and _meant_ it; he’s never heard Bill sound the way he just did. But when Bill speaks again he’s back to his usual, haughty drawl, “My god, Sixer. And here I thought you were still pining after me. Looks like Mr Brainiac finally got smart!”

 “Thirty years is a long time for a human. Some of us learn.”

“I still think love’s pretty stupid.”

The corner of Ford’s lips quirk slightly. “It is.”

 

Bill speaks again before Ford can get another word in, “Do you _really_ want an answer to that? Or are you just asking because you can?”

Ford raises his shoulders and drops them. “This is it, isn’t it? It’s over. The part where I go, ‘Any last words, Cipher?’, and you say something scathing before I end you.”

“Always with the drama.” He doesn’t know how he can tell, but he _knows_ Bill’s smiling at him with his ruptured eyeball. “And just so you know: you’re not really killing me. I mean, sure, I wouldn’t be able to come back to _this_ dimension anymore, but – what the heck. Tons of fish in the ocean, other games to beat. _Multitudes_ of other universes to corrupt and destroy… _millions_ of timelines to mess around with. I might even run into versions of you that haven’t met me yet! I’m definitely going to enjoy breaking you all over again.”

“That’s fine. I expected as much,” Ford says. “For someone with unlimited access to the entire multiverse, it certainly was strange that you would develop such an obsession with this one.”

Bill snorts. “Yeah, I think I’ve about squeezed all the fun outta ya that I could. You’re boring now. We had some good times, though!”

“We did, yes,” Stanford agrees, quietly.

They lapse back into silence.

“’I love you’,” Bill says. The words are spoken simply, sincerely, but devoid of emotion. The pieces of him on the ground do not move. “Did I mean it? Was I lying? Does it matter, if it was only what you wanted to _hear_ from me? _How would you know?_ Would you believe me… even if I told you I was telling the truth?

“Three simple words… yet look at all the ways they can be taken.”

x x x

There was once a time – a long, long time ago – where Stanford Pines would have killed to hear those words from Bill Cipher again.

He’s past that. Whether Bill’s trying to confuse him, hurt him, or even – dare he believe it – being honest… hearing it now has no effect.

“I don’t trust you.”

Stanford's lips are still slightly turned up at the edges.

“Even if you _are_ telling the truth. It doesn’t matter anymore. You hurt me very badly, Bill."

" _Urgh_ , here we go."

"Maybe there's a world where we're together." Stanford looks up. The Mindscape – because that's where they've been all along – is breaking up, shadow-thin ribbons peeling away, flaking off, dissolving away to nothingness. Stanford can see the orange-tinged sky of the reality outside through the rips of it. "Maybe there's a timeline where the portal was completed on the first try, and you took over right then and there. Maybe there's a universe where we never meet at all."

"Maybe," Bill grumbles as he begins pulling himself together for the last time, "there's a world where you aren't so ridiculously _disgusting_ with words."

"It's all meaningless to you, I’m sure." Stanford steps forward as Bill floats up off the ground. Even assembled, it's clear he’s having trouble maintaining his form. "But in this world, in this life... It meant something to me. Even though it turned out poorly. You were my first… my last, and my only. I'm glad... I'm glad we got a chance to meet."

"Kill me," Bill groans, "Just… _god_. Get it over with already! They _really_ need a fast-forward on this thing."

Stanford obliges him. He pulls back his fist.

"Goodbye, Bill," Stanford says.

 _"Fucking finally,"_ Bill mutters.

Bill blows him one last "kiss" as Stanford puts his entire arm through Bill's eye.

x x x

In another life, Stanford loses. He gives in to his anguish, his desires, and chooses Bill over the earth.

In another world, the brothers never made up. Stanford is pushed through the portal - he never returns. Stanley dies, old and alone, bitter and forgotten and full of regrets.

In another dimension, the Vessel lives. Stanford gapes at Bill as his form evolves into something god-like, nightmarish and incomprehensible. It’s the last memory he processes.  

In another universe, Stanley sacrifices himself. Ford erases Bill from his brother’s mind and cries for his doubled loss.

In this life…

Stanford closes his eyes.

x x x

The Fearamid is disintegrating.

“We need to get down.” He ignores their incredulous gaping and bewildered questions. “Quickly – let’s move.”

x x x

The crowd observes the event in silence, as the chaos and destruction from Bill’s takeover are sucked back into the X-shaped rip they came from.

Mabel and Dipper look between Stan, then Ford, then back at Stan again. They’re bursting with questions, hungry for answers… but it isn’t the time.

There might never be.

“Is… Is Grunkle Ford okay?” Mabel whispers to Stan, concerned but helplessly aware that there’s little she and her brother will be able to do to help.

Stan ruffles her hair affectionately and squeezes her shoulder. But he doesn’t reply.

The tear to Bill’s dimension closes.

x x x

He tells them the truth. It’s the most he can do, really. He leaves out the personal aspects of it, the intimacy of their conversation, but aside from that it’s a pretty accurate re-telling of the occurrence of events.

“He _"just"_ died?” Dipper sounds skeptical. And _incredibly_ disappointed. “That’s _it?!_ All that talk, about taking over the world, and trying to gain physical form, of tricking _generations_ of people across several _millenniums_ – and Bill Cipher _"just"_ dies?!”

“Boring!” Mabel jeers. She’s melted into a sulky puddle over her plate of untouched dinner. “Yeesh! I thought he was going to be like some kind of major bad guy, or something. The whole thing was actually pretty sick right until that last part!”

Ford shrugs and shovels mashed potatoes into his mouth. “Sometimes the journey is worth more than its destination.”

Dipper lets out a frustrated groan and joins his sister in playing with his food. “I think I got way too hyped up over this. Man, I thought I was gonna have something _cool_ to tell Mom and Dad…”

“Kids these days.” Stan bops them both over the head with a rolled up newspaper summarizing the events of “Weirdmageddon” and the kids protest laughingly. “The world damn well nearly ends, and they’re _still_ complaining it didn’t get saved dramatically enough.”

“Language, Stanley,” Ford intones out of habit.

Mabel grins at them, poking her tongue out. “We’re almost teenagers, Grunkle Ford. It’s okay if we hear swears.” Then, in a very loud, theatrical stage whisper, “Besides, I’ve heard Grunkle Stan say _WAY_ worse. Like that time he dropped the balloon tank on his foot, and he just straight up yelled, ‘SON OF A – ’”

“WHY DON’T WE SEE IF THEY’RE RE-RUNNING ‘GRANDPA THE KID’ TONIGHT?” Stan asks, rapidly switching on the TV.

x x x

“Was that really it?”

The kids have passed out on the couch, the light from the television bathing them in a soft glow. A clown on a unicycle is juggling on the screen.

“Yes.” Ford dries the dish that’s handed to him and puts it away.

Stan gives him a long, hard look.

“I believe ya,” he says finally. “I’m not gonna push it.” He drops his gaze to the sink as he begins aimlessly rinsing the dishes. “…You know you _can_ talk to me, right?”

“I do. And I _do_ appreciate it, Stanley.”

“No, damn it, I mean… I’m not…” Stan chews his lip, clearly uncomfortable. “I’m not… gonna have to worry about. You know. Finding you dangling from the rafters, or something, when I wake up tomorrow, am I…?”

“Stan, _really_.” Ford fakes offense. “Not in front of the _children_ , good god.”

They exchange short chuckles and nervous laughs and elbow each other lightly in the ribs. They finish doing the dishes, and each brother takes a twin and carries the sleeping children up to their beds in the attic.    

Stanley has to admit – he’s still relieved when he comes down the next day to see his brother already seated at the breakfast table. Ford just raises a challenging eyebrow at him over his standard mug of coffee, and then Dipper and Mabel tromp down the stairs with exaggerated yawns and sleepy salutations – like the last week had never happened – and the morning settles smoothly back into routine.

Stan continues giving his tours (Weirdmageddon certainly had thrust the sleepy town into the spotlight, and he has no complaints about the additional income). Ford continues to teach. The children continue to explore Gravity Falls where they’d left off, this time accompanied happily by Gideon and Pacifica.  

Life goes on.

x x x

Before they know it, the summer is over.

The younger twins exchange tearful hugs and kisses, and promises to catch up the next summer, before reluctantly clambering onto the bus. None of them stop waving enthusiastically at each other until the vehicle is out of sight.  

It’s odd, waking up to a quiet house after weeks of getting to hear the children’s joy and laughter. Stan chuckles and sighs, stretching languidly, when he freezes abruptly.

The children are gone.

The house is too quiet.

_Not in front of the children –_

He trips as he rushes to Ford’s room.

It’s empty.

x x x

 _“Shit...!” Stan staggers down the stairs. “Oh, god…!_ FORD?!”

_He bursts into the kitchen._

_Stanford turns. He’s smiling._

_“Hey, Stan.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the ending I had for the story when I first started writing for it. There were several things that changed throughout the course of the story as it developed (Fiddleford's involvement, the Shape Shifter, the first fight with Stan against Bill and how it panned out eventually), but this was not one of them.
> 
> The focus of Vessel, for me, had always been about Stanford, his relationships to the other characters in the story, and ultimately, how he ends up dealing with Bill's betrayal. Canon already gave us a Ford that was obsessed with righting his wrongs, and whose biggest regret was meeting Bill and trusting him in the first place. I wanted to write... to explore a Ford that didn't carry all this pent up self-loathing, who didn't allow his thirty years of hatred for Bill to get in the way of living his life as he could/should have.
> 
> To everyone who has read Vessel, whether you've left kudos/comments or not, or if you just read it because you figured, "what the heck, Gravity Falls mpreg Triangle fucker, lol, oh boy won't this be a riot", or if you're an anonymous reader who's left zero traces of activity... No matter the reason for your reading this, thank you for your time, and thank you for reading it until the very end. I greatly appreciate it.


End file.
